Esmerelda's Choice
by Baby-Cellophane
Summary: based on the Disney version. What if Esmerelda had chosen Frollo? Paris is still in chaos, and Esmerelda's daughter is becoming bored and disillusioned with the life that Frollo is forcing her to lead. Reviews appreciated!
1. Prologue, 1482

**PROLOGUE…**

"You have a decision to make, Esmerelda."

"You already know my answer. Just kill me."

He turned to her, smiling now. "Oh no," he chuckled, "that isn't the decision at all. I won't have you killed if you refuse me. I'll have _them_ killed."

She swallowed, shaking her head. "No. I don't believe you – "

He turned to the door. "Bring her in," he called. The door swung open and several guards entered, dragging a struggling, squirming form in with them. It was a girl; she couldn't have been more than thirteen. She fought like a wildcat, thrashing and scratching at the guards, screaming as loud as she could. Frollo watched, a bemused smile playing on his lips. "Do what you like with her, then cut her throat."

"No!" Esmerelda lunged, grabbing at the guards. Frollo seized her arm, holding her back. His grip was surprisingly strong for that of an old man; his fingernails dug painfully into her arm. One of the guards was tearing at the girl's blouse, laughing as she continued to scream. "Make them stop!" Esmerelda turned to Frollo now, realizing that now she had no choice.

"Say it."

"I choose you." She had to shout to be heard. "I choose you, now make them stop!"

Frollo stepped forward immediately, releasing Esmerelda's arm as he did so. She felt her knees buckle and allowed her body to sink to the floor. She watched as Frollo ordered the guards to release the girl, chastising them. It was almost funny to hear him call them 'filthy, lustful pigs,' especially when he himself was no better. In fact, he was worse. Esmerelda watched as the sobbing girl was led away. Frollo turned to her, marching towards her and grabbing her arm, pulling her to her feet. "Your friends will all be released within the hour," he said. "You may watch if you like, my dear."

~xXx~

They had taken the girl less than an hour ago. Clopin could feel the anger and outrage burning in the air around him, and he felt a strong urge to pace back and forth. There was no room; the cell was packed. He shifted his weight. He stared at the dungeon doors, willing them to open. He could hear the girl's parents; the mother's incessant wailing was agonizing. Why had they taken her? What could they want with her? She was only a child, for heaven's sake.

The doors swung open and a surly-looking guard entered. He was dragging the girl behind him. Her blouse had been torn open, and she was covering herself with her hands. She was sobbing. It was clear what had happened to her, and the room erupted, the air filling with angry shouts. Clopin could barely hear himself above the yelling.

"Pervert!" a woman in the next cell screamed, "filthy perverts, all of you!"

"She's a child, how could you?"

"I swear on all that's holy, I'll kill you all for this!"

The guard fumbled with his key ring before opening the cell and shoving the girl inside. Clopin took her in his arms, pulling her away from the slamming door. He glared at the guard, memorizing the man's face. If he ever got out of this cell, he'd castrate the man, then he'd give him to the girl's father.

The girl was shivering and sobbing, her face buried in his shoulder. He took his coat off, wrapping it around her. The others in the cell were crowding around, bombarding the girl with questions and sympathies. Clopin waved them away, pulling the girl into a corner. "You're safe now," he said, "you're completely safe now." He stroked the girl's hair. "What's your name, little one?"

"Cassandra." The girl's response was muffled, and she lifted her face off of his shoulder to repeat herself.

Clopin nodded. "We're going to get out of here," he said, "and we're going to find the men who hurt you and make them pay."

She shook her head. "They didn't," she said. "I mean, they didn't actually…ravish me." He stared at her, puzzled. "They were going to, but then…" the girl sighed, "it's all my fault. Esmerelda has to marry that horrid old man, and it's all my fault!" She started to cry again.

Clopin turned to the man beside him. "Get word to the girl's parents that she wasn't raped," he whispered. "Make sure they know she's all right." He turned back to the girl. "Cassandra, little one, what do you mean?"

"They brought me to a room and they started…they were pulling my clothes, and Esmerelda was there…and she told Frollo to make them stop, but…they wouldn't stop unless she agreed to marry him, and so she did…"

Clopin was still struggling to digest the information when the doors swung open again. Frollo entered this time, Esmerelda in tow. She was wearing a white dress, and her thick black hair was completely hidden by a white scarf. It was like some perverse wedding dress. She stared at the ground, her small hands clasped in front of her. People were calling to her, some of them reaching for her, but she ignored them all.

"You are all going to be released," bellowed Frollo, "your darling Esmerelda has seen to it."

The room erupted again. Frollo raised his hands for silence and was ultimately ignored. He continued to shout, saying something about people being released in groups rather than all at once, but Clopin couldn't bring himself to pay attention. All he could do was watch Esmerelda and know that Frollo had won. In the end, Frollo had won.

~xXx~

The dungeon was spinning. It was like being trapped in a dream. Esmerelda found she couldn't move for fear of fainting. She forced herself to think about Phoebus, to take comfort that at least she'd been able to make love to him before this. She would probably never seem him again. She replayed her moments with him, trying desperately to hang onto the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, his scent. She felt Frollo take her by the hand and lead her away. She followed, moving slowly so as not to topple.

She was willing to burn at the stake, to cause her own death, before marrying this monster. She couldn't let others suffer or die because of her. The girl – the poor little girl who the guards had attempted to rape – she was only the beginning. If Esmerelda refused Frollo, there would be others. Other girls and women raped and killed, men tortured. She couldn't bear to be responsible for that.

~xXx~

The guards came and released them. It was a slow process; each cell would be opened and emptied, the guards forcing each individual to leave the dungeon. People attempted to gather in the courtyards to wait for loved ones, but there were guards waiting for them there as well, threatening and menacing. People began to trickle back to the Court of Miracles waiting for friends and family to arrive.

Her cell was opened last. Clopin refused to let go of her, and the other men in the cell surrounded her, forming a thick protective knot. She wanted to find her parents; they had probably gone back to the Court along with all the others. She was still wearing Clopin's coat; there was a puppet in one of the pockets. She had simply plunged her hand in and found it, and now she clutched it as tightly as she could. She was ushered past the guards who'd attacked her. She refused to look at their sneering faces.

She was quite sure that Clopin and the other men would take care of them. She'd overheard two men whispering about what they would do to the guards – words like 'castrate' and 'disembowel' had come up.

She didn't remember making her way back to the Court, only that Clopin had his arm around her the entire time. She felt somewhat safer with him there. She'd seen him before, of course, knew who he was, but had never been so close to him. She'd never realized just how tall and thin he was until now.

They were all surprised upon returning to the Court. Everyone had been expecting it to be ransacked; caravans and shacks burning, livestock dead. The Court was just as they had left it. It was eerie, returning like this. Cassandra looked around, expecting to see flames and chaos. Instead, the Court was filled with a spooky sort of calm that permeated everything and made everyone uncomfortable.

"Cassandra! Cassandra!" she heard her parents calling and left Clopin's side immediately, running to them. She was barely aware of doing so. She fell into her mother's waiting arms, burying her face in her shoulder. Her mother was sobbing. Cassandra hadn't realized that she herself had stopped crying until she heard her mother's sobs. Her parents enveloped her now, pressing her between them.

~xXx~

"I know who those men were and where they live. Are you literate?"

"What?" he'd been so startled by Cassandra's sudden flight he hadn't noticed Phoebus appear beside him.

"You can read and write, can't you?" He twitched impatiently.

"Yes." Literacy was one of the few things that Clopin was truly proud of achieving. His father had been able to teach him and his older brother, Maurice, to read shortly before his death. Clopin had attempted to teach others to read, though without much success; many saw it as a waste of time, as something that would serve no purpose.

"I'll write it down for you," said Phoebus. "I'll write down who they are and where they live."

"All right," said Clopin. "Thank you."

Phoebus nodded. "I'm going to rescue Esmerelda," he said. He picked up the sword that had been taken from him and tossed carelessly aside only hours earlier. He examined the blade now, running his fingertip along it.

"Listen, if we're going to do that, we need a plan," said Clopin, "I've got to meet with the council of elders, we'll form an army and go in after her – "

"No." Phoebus shook his head, fastening the sword to his belt. "It has to be done now."

"Phoebus, if you burst in there now – "

"I care about her! I love her, and I'm going to save her!"

"We all love her, Phoebus, but you need to have a plan. If something should happen – "

Phoebus turned and walked away, pushing through the panicking crowd. Clopin started to go after him, then stopped. He was needed here. He had to meet with the rest of the council and decide what should be done. If they were to flee Paris, if would have to be done tonight. If they were to stay, they would need a plan.

~xXx~

"You shouldn't have come!" She paced back and forth frantically. "If he finds you here – "

"I'm not afraid of him. I'm here to rescue you."

"You can't," she said. Tears were beginning to form in her eyes, streaming down her face. "He'll kill them all if I leave – "

"So I'll go warn them," he said, shifting his weight on the windowsill. They were wasting precious time; Frollo could be back at any minute. "We'll round up the caravans and leave with the rest of the Gypsies."

She shook her head. "No, Quasimodo. I can't. He'll kill them all. He'll rape and torture and slaughter all of them. I can't let him."

"But – but if they escape – "

"We've tried before. There is no escape." She rubbed her eyes. "Just go before he finds you."

"Esmerelda, we can't let him win. Phoebus is down here in the courtyard waiting for you. We have to go now!"

"Phoebus?" her eyes lit up, as he'd known they would at the mere mention of Phoebus's name. She bit her lip, wringing her hands as if trying to decide. She stepped towards Quasimodo's outstretched hand, then stopped, spinning around. He'd heard it as well, the sound of a key turning in a lock, and he leapt off of the windowsill and into the room. Esmerelda shook her head, her eyes growing wide with fear. "No!" she whispered, "you have to leave, you've got to!"

He heard the dull scraping sound of Phoebus climbing up the rope and stepped away from the window to let him in. He was stupid for coming in; it was his job to remain in the courtyard to make sure no one saw them escape. Esmerelda was crying now, trying frantically to push them both back towards the window.

"So! This is how you repay me?"

Esmerelda spun around, shaking her head. "Please, you don't understand – "

"Oh, I understand perfectly well." Frollo swept into the room. Quasimodo had never seen him look so angry in all his life, and was suddenly very glad to have Phoebus in the room with him. "I rescue your little harlot friend from the fate she so deserves and this is the thanks I get!"

Phoebus stepped forward now, brandishing his sword. "That 'harlot' was just a girl," he said, "and what you let those men do to her was abominable." He stepped forward. "You let Esmerelda go right now."

Frollo reached into the folds of his robe, pulling out a sheet of paper. "She has made her decision," he said, handing the paper to Phoebus. "She is my wife now, completely by choice."

"You forced her!" shouted Phoebus, throwing the paper to the ground. Quasimodo now saw that it was a marriage license. "You threatened her!"

"I did nothing of the sort. Her life was never threatened."

"The girl!" sputtered Phoebus, "you threatened the girl! You blackmailed Esmerelda and – "

"And if Esmerelda runs away, I will destroy each and every Gypsy in this city." Frollo smirked, folding his arms across his chest. "Oh, they can flee too, they're quite good at that, but I'll find them. They have no Court of Miracles to hide in. I will personally make sure that they do not leave this city. You see, Esmerelda is willing to sacrifice her life, but she doesn't want the blood of the innocents on her hands."

"I will kill you!" Phoebus was screaming now, and Quasimodo heard the clattering of armor as guards rushed to the room.

Frollo grabbed Esmerelda, pulling her in front of him. "The only way to slay me is to go through her," he said. "Are you willing to do that, Phoebus? Kill the woman you love so that you might kill me also?" Guards were streaming into the room now, surrounding Phoebus. "Take him away," said Frollo. "Perhaps releasing him as a bad idea. I want him dead by dawn."

Esmerelda began to sob loudly as Phoebus was dragged away. "What about the hunchback, sir?" Some of the guards were now looking at Quasimodo, sizing him up, wondering what the outcome of an attack would be.

"Bring him back to Notre Dame," said Frollo, waving his free hand at them. "He's really of no concern to me."

Quasimodo turned to the window, shoving the guards away from him. "I can find my own way back," he said, straddling the windowsill and grabbing the rope to climb down. He did not want to see Esmerelda cry any more than he wanted her to see him cry. Frollo was right. He had been right about so many things; the world was a cruel, ugly, unfair place. Beauty simply did not survive. This was Esmerelda's choice, cruel and awful as it was, she was doing it for the good of her people. She was beautiful still, and he would always love her, no matter what Frollo did to her.

~xXx~

"There are roadblocks set up. No one will let us leave."

The news from the scouts they'd sent out was disturbing at best. Guards were posted along all major roadways. They wouldn't let anyone of Gypsy descent leave Paris. The plan – to flee and then send a party back for Esmerelda – was dissolving. They were trapped. Clopin turned to the rest of the council, shaking his head.

"We're trapped here," he said. The news sunk in quickly for most of the council members. Clopin turned away from them, looking out at the crowd that had gathered outside of his caravan. He could see Cassandra's mother standing there, his coat folded over her arm. He'd forgotten that he'd given it to her daughter. He swallowed. He would be the one to tell them that they were trapped in the city.

**...END OF PROLOGUE**


	2. Four Years Later, 1486

FOUR YEARS LATER (1486)…

The one thing she truly missed more than anything else was being outside. By now she'd completely forgotten all the nights she'd ever spent cold and shivering in the street; she longed to be outside. She missed the sunlight and the rain, the snow, the wind. The house was a house that any woman would love. It was large, filled with elegant furniture and vast rooms. There was plenty to do inside of the house. There were two libraries, more books than anyone could possibly read in a lifetime.

She supposed that that was the one good thing about choosing Frollo. He had taught her how to read. Clopin had tried to teach her, and now she regretted that she'd brushed him off, dismissing reading as an unimportant hobby. Frollo insisted that she learn to read. "Literature," he'd said, "is the basis of a truly intelligent conversation." So she had begrudgingly learned to read, and she'd grown to love it.

She was trying to teach Katarina to read, though she was only four and preferred running about in the nursery to sitting still. Katarina had inherited her father's blonde hair, and Esmerelda loved to watch it glisten in the sunlight. She loved Katarina far more than she could even begin to understand. Katarina, after all, was all she had left of Phoebus.

Frollo had no idea. He chuckled and told her that he had been blonde-haired in his youth. She had the impression that he didn't particularly like Katarina, though; he had never held her or shown her any sign of physical affection. Still, he didn't seem to know that she wasn't really his daughter, and that was all that mattered. If he ever found out…Esmerelda couldn't bring herself to think about it. She could barely allow herself to think about Phoebus, wondering where his bones were buried, what had become of his body. She found that she couldn't remember his touch, his scent, his voice. Still, though, she had their Katarina.

"You have a secret name," she whispered as Katarina slept, "your name is Katarina Phoebus. Katarina Phoebus."

~xXx~

He had realized that the puppet was missing from his coat pocket, but it hadn't bothered him at the time, and he'd forgotten about it quickly. There were other, more pressing issues. The Gypsies were still prisoners in Paris, though some semblance of normalcy had returned. The Festival of Fools still came once a year, though he found little joy in it. It was much like any other day, really, only with more confetti. Still, the citizens of Paris seemed to enjoy it just as much as they ever had, and there was money to be stolen or earned.

Clopin was in the middle of the final preparations for the Festival when he noticed that Cassandra still had the puppet. He'd been keeping an eye on her since for the last four years; she'd begun helping him with the puppet shows. She was talkative, chattering endlessly about everything and nothing, and the children liked her well enough. She told them new stories, often making them up on the spot. Clopin had never done that, and it bothered him slightly; stories should be well-crafted and solid. Cassandra's were fluid, constantly shifting with her imagination.

He had seen Cassandra talking to herself in private and had never listened in. It would've been impolite, and if it was a sign of madness, then he wanted no part of it. But he noticed her sitting behind some of the caravans in the Court, talking to the puppet, and before he realized what he was doing, he'd crept up behind her and was listening intently.

"I suppose I am jealous of Delphine," she said. She held the puppet in palms of her hands, crouching over it protectively. "She's marrying Alain in two weeks. I guess I'm happy for her, but…" she sighed, "no one's ever courted me. No one wants to marry me. I know what the boys say about me when they think I can't hear. It isn't true. Everyone knows it isn't true…"

Clopin knew what she meant. He'd heard other men and women whisper it; he really shouldn't have been surprised that Cassandra knew it too. 'Damaged goods.' She hadn't been raped, but the stigma of it followed her anyway, like a stain she couldn't wash away. Since Phoebus's disappearance, it had been difficult to track down the four men who'd attacked her. They had caught and killed three of them, snaring them easily, like rabbits. He would not permit Cassandra to watch them be killed, and after the first one had died screaming in agony, she'd stopped asking to. Her father was especially brutal when it came to avenging his daughter. Clopin would not let her see her own father take a man's life, even if that man deserved it. He was surprised that the city hadn't flown into a panic; three of the guards dead within the span of four years. Perhaps it was because no one had ever recovered the bodies. He'd found the fourth man, and he would meet his own bloody end after the Festival.

"I wonder, though, if marriage is really all that wonderful," Cassandra was saying, "I mean, you've never married, and you're perfectly happy. I suppose it's different for a man, though. If a man never marries, it's all right. If a woman never marries, though, it means there's something wrong with her. I suppose I don't really want to marry…I just want to show everyone that there's nothing wrong with me…"

Clopin turned away from her, sliding into the shadows. She hadn't been talking to the puppet, not really. She'd been talking to him. Of course, she hadn't known that he was there listening; she pretended that the puppet was him. It was strange to realize this, like finding out that a famous painting was really a portrait of him. He walked back to his caravan and began mindlessly checking the rest of his puppets. The marionettes he'd checked less than twenty minutes ago were still in perfect working order. He put them away, thinking about the Festival, less than a day away.

~xXx~

Fleeing was the coward's way out, but he'd done it anyway and didn't regret it too much. He did feel bad about tricking Émile; he swore he'd find a way to apologize some day. Some day, when his leg healed fully, he would return to Paris, apologize to Émile, and kill Claude Frollo.

Phoebus limped on. His leg throbbed in agony, and he was afraid of losing it. The wound in his calf had become swollen and infected, and now the infection was spreading. He didn't like being afraid, but knowing that his leg couldn't be saved, that it would have to be amputated, frightened him. He'd left the platoon behind months ago. He had no money, no food, and no idea where to find a doctor, let alone how to pay him.

He sat down, sighing in relief as the pressure was taken off his bad leg. He closed his eyes and thought of Esmerelda, replaying their moments together in his mind. He remembered her clearly, with vivid, perfect detail. Her eyes, her mouth, her smile, her laugh…it was all there in his mind. He imagined their life together, after he liberated her from that licentious judge. With Frollo dead, Paris would return to its former beauty and glory.

And Émile, he'd do something nice for Émile. Build him a house, perhaps. Maybe Émile had known that this would happen, that Phoebus would leave at the first opportunity. "You're too good a soldier to waste," Émile had said, "cut your hair, change your name, and re-join the army. The soldiers are marching out at dawn…in a few hours, really. I'll let you out now. Don't worry about Frollo, I'll find some way to convince him you're dead."

So he'd fled Paris like a coward, and now he'd fled the army like a coward. His leg throbbed. How could he return and rescue Esmerelda like this? The leg would have to go, he'd realized that (though he was far from accepting it). How could he charge triumphantly back, slay Frollo, and rescue Esmerelda with only one leg?

"God damn him!" he yelled, striking the ground beside him. He hadn't realized that he'd begun to cry. "God damn him!"

~ xXx~

She knew that Clopin didn't much care for the Festival of Fools anymore, but he was behaving strangely distant. It was as though a great burden had enveloped his mind. Perhaps he was preoccupied with murdering the last of her attackers. She'd overheard him discussing it with her father a few days ago. They would capture the last man after the Festival and do to him what they did to the others.

It was comforting to know that Clopin had taken such an interest in avenging her honor. She was glad that he'd let her participate in the puppet theatre. She loved it; the clowning, the playing, the pretending. She'd wondered briefly if she loved Clopin, but had shoved the thoughts out of her mind without exploring them. He was so much older than she was. Even if she did love him, he would never see her as anything more than a child. It would be best for her to pretend.

"Clopin! Clopin!"

They both turned to the woman who was calling his name. She stumbled out of the crowd, wobbling like a drunkard as she approached them. Her blonde hair was in disarray, and she held a four-year-old child in her arms. "Clopin Trouillefou!" she called again, racing towards them.

Clopin stepped towards her as though he knew her. "Gratiana?"

She smiled wearily, thrusting the child – who Cassandra now saw was a blonde-haired boy – towards him. Clopin took the child, catching as the woman nearly dropped him. "What's going on Gratiana?"

"Maurice is dead!" The woman burst into tears, pressing her apron to her face to muffle her sobs. "He – he'd been ill and then – this morning…" her voice dissolved into incoherent sobbing again. Clopin attempted to reach out to her, but the child in his arms was squirming and had also begun to cry.

"Gratiana, I am so sorry – "

"I can't," she sobbed, "I can't! I can't!"

She turned and fled into the crowd, weaving in and out of people with surprising speed. Clopin stared dumbfounded, then took a step as if to go after her. The child in his arms was wailing for his mother now, grabbing at the space where she'd been. Cassandra stepped forward, deftly taking the child from Clopin's arms.

"Go after her," she said, "I'll watch the baby, go find her."

Clopin darted out into the crowd, following the woman. Cassandra watched, suddenly wondering if he'd come back. Would he leave her here with the baby, just as the mysterious woman had left him? Who was Maurice? Cassandra reached into her corset and pulled out the puppet. It had been in Clopin's coat pocket the night he'd given it to her to wear, and she'd never gotten around to giving it back. She slipped it over her hand now, waving it about in an attempt to divert the crying child's attention.

The child watched the puppet, his sobbing subsiding into mild hiccups. Cassandra sat down, cradling him on her lap, and began tell a story to go with the puppet. It was nothing fancy, just a little thing about a dancing clown, but the child seemed to like it. She knew that Clopin disapproved of her method of storytelling; he plotted his stories in advance, carefully crafting them and writing them down. Her stories were spur-of-the-moment. She noticed now that the child had a note pinned to the sleeve of his shirt.

She unpinned it and opened it. She couldn't read, but she stared at the letters, picking out the few that she actually knew. An hour had gone by and Clopin was still gone. The child in her lap was beginning to fuss again; he was probably hungry. Cassandra looked around. She'd eaten her lunch already, but maybe Clopin had a few things in the tent. She stood up, carrying the child inside, and set him down while she searched. She found a few biscuits and was in the process of handing one to the boy when Clopin returned.

"What's happened?" she asked.

His face was pale and his hands were shaking as he picked up the child. "That woman was my sister-in-law," he said. "My brother died this morning and now she…" he sighed, looking away from the child. "She threw herself into the Seine. She's dead too."

"But – the baby…"

"I haven't seen Maurice in years," said Clopin. "I didn't even know he had a son…I don't know this boy's name…"

Cassandra opened her mouth, then closed it. She didn't know what to do or say. Clopin sat down and motioned for her to do the same. She sat, suddenly remembering the note that had been pinned to the child's clothes. She fished it from her pockets and handed it to Clopin. He opened it carefully.

"Well…his name is Giovanni…"

~xXx~

The weeks following the Festival were chaotic and strange for Clopin, and he found he was barely able to remember them in great detail. Giovanni seemed to have forgotten his mother, or at least accepted that he would never see her again. Clopin found this strange, but was relieved that the boy had stopped crying. Giovanni was easy enough to entertain; he seemed to have taken custody of Cassandra's puppet, though Cassandra didn't seem to mind. She stopped by more frequently than ever, helping with puppet shows or looking after Giovanni. She begged Clopin to teach her to read, and he found himself suddenly reluctant. The only free time he had now was in the evenings after Giovanni had gone to sleep, and he found himself thoroughly exhausted.

Still, Cassandra was adamant about learning to read, and he willed himself to stay awake to teach her. She was enthusiastic about it as well, bringing back scraps of paper she'd found on the street and reading them aloud to him.

"You're learning very quickly," he said, yawning.

She smiled at him. She was sitting on the floor of the caravan across from him. "It's not as hard as I'd imagined," she said. The shadows from the candle between them played across her face as she reached into the folds of her skirt and pulled out another crumpled sheet of paper.

"This will have to be the last one for tonight. I'm exhausted…"

"Of course!" She examined the paper, biting her lower lip in concentration. Clopin felt his eyes slide shut. He didn't need them to listen to her, he could close them for just a moment…

"I love you."

He opened his eyes when she said it the second time. She was staring at the paper, blushing, refusing to meet his gaze. He sat up, realizing that he was slumped against the wall, and leaned towards her. "Cassandra…"

She looked at him. "I…I didn't find this paper," she said finally. "I wrote it." She handed it to him. Her handwriting was large and shaky, child-like, but clear. _I love you_.

He put the paper down, reaching over and taking her hand. She slid towards him, gripping his hand. He heard a shrill voice in his head – his conscience, perhaps – shouting angrily at him as he kissed her. _She's ten years younger than you are, she's practically a child! What are you doing? Her father will kill you!_ He silenced the voice quickly as she slipped into his arms.


	3. Four Years Later, 1490

THREE YEARS LATER, 1490…

She wondered briefly what they were saying about her now. She didn't particularly care; the pain was far too great. Rosalie was standing beside her, holding her hand and telling her to wait, that it wasn't time yet. She trusted Rosalie completely on this matter; Rosalie, after all, had two children of her own and had helped birth dozens of others. Still, she wanted the baby to be out of her now more than ever.

She'd grown accustomed to being with people older than her. She couldn't stand people her own age. The pain flared up again, and she cried out, gripping Rosalie's hand.

"It's time now," Rosalie was saying, "you've got to push."

Cassandra nodded, taking a deep breath. Rosalie patted her forehead and let go of her hand, moving to the end of the table. "Ah, yes," she said, nodding, "it's time now. Push for me."

The pain was blinding, and Cassandra heard herself screaming. She felt someone else – her mother, it was definitely her mother – take hold of her hand. She gripped her mother's hand as though she could ease the pain by doing so. Her mother was stroking her hair with her free hand, making shushing noises and telling her to keep pushing.

She found herself thinking about what she'd overheard Alain and the other boys (the boys her own age, who she'd grown up with but now barely knew) saying after she'd married Clopin. _Damaged goods. Clopin must feel sorry for her. It's kind of him, you know, to marry her even though…_Talking about her as if her virginity was her only quality, as though Clopin pitied her. She clenched her hand around her mother's and screamed again as the pain rippled through her. What about Delphine, she wondered, whose babies seemed to constantly die in the womb? Was she 'damaged goods' too? Did Alain resent her, or did he love her even though she'd never be able to give him an heir?

She was jolted from her thoughts by the sound of the baby crying. She gasped, feeling her mother let go of her hand. She opened her eyes in time to see her mother take the baby from Rosalie. "I have a granddaughter!" she cried, "I have a granddaughter!" Rosalie was laughing, and Cassandra could feel her moving around, cleaning her up.

"You did wonderfully," said Rosalie. "A healthy baby girl – and an easy birth as well!"

Cassandra chuckled as Rosalie helped her sit up. "It didn't feel easy," she said.

"I've dealt with much worse, trust me."

~xXx~

She had grown accustomed to her own house arrest, but she couldn't bear the thought of keeping Katarina locked away indoors forever. Katarina was not a child who was meant to stay inside; she was rambunctious and active, always running and skipping and shouting. The house just couldn't contain her. The world was big enough for Katarina. It was a vast place where she could run and skip to her heart's content. It was big enough to hold her – bigger, in fact. It was big enough for her to grow in.

Frollo didn't see it that way. He insisted that Katarina was far safer inside the house, that the world was full of people who'd hurt her. Especially men, it seemed. Frollo seemed to think that men would be so taken with Katarina's beauty that they wouldn't be able to help themselves. Esmerelda hadn't pointed out that most of those men were men Frollo knew and worked with. The guards at the Palace of Justice were crueler and more lustful than Frollo would admit. And besides, Katarina was only seven. She was not especially beautiful, either, though Esmerelda would never say this aloud.

Katarina was tall for her age, and her near-constant movement had taken its toll on her clothing. Esmerelda found that she was always patching dresses – especially at the knees. It was easier to keep her blonde hair pulled back in a braid; it was very fine and would tangle otherwise. She often wondered if her daughter would be happier as a boy. After all, boys were allowed to run and jump; they were rarely forced to sit still, bent over embroidery. Boys were also allowed to go outside.

The fact that she'd borne a child by Frollo infuriated her enough, but the fact that this one was allowed outside – simply because he was a boy – made her see red. Jean-Claude was only three, but Frollo would bring him for walks around the city, showing him places like the Palace of Justice and the Notre Dame Cathedral. Katarina was far too boisterous to hide her jealousy. Esmerelda couldn't count the number of times Frollo had scolded her and sent her to her room without supper for her "insolence," as he called it.

"You are far too insolent and unladylike, Katarina," he would say, over and over, his lectures falling on deaf ears as Katarina stormed from the room, tears running down her face.

Jean-Claude looked far too much like his father, and Esmerelda was beginning to wonder if Frollo would realize the difference between him and his sister. Jean-Claude had inherited Esmerelda's dark hair, but had his father's pale complexion and piercing blue eyes. He was small and solemn, far too quiet for such a small child. He rarely wanted to play any of Katarina's games (which usually involved running and lots of noise).

Esmerelda watched as her husband and son left for their afternoon walk, knowing that Katarina was sulking in her room. She sighed and began to climb the stairs to comfort her, to tell her stories about her real father, and to promise her that one day she'd leave the house.

~xXx~

Wandering didn't suit him, not really. It didn't suit him any better than fleeing, which he'd done so much of in the past years. How long had it been? Seven years? Eight? Ten? Time was just a blur.

His leg – or, the stump where his leg had been – still ached. The pain was incessant. He found himself hating the doctor who'd removed it. He knew it was wrong to hate the old man; after all, he'd removed the leg with no immediate payment.

"Lad, if you survive this, it'll be payment enough," he'd said, tying a thick rope around Phoebus's thigh. "You can pay me back if you like. I won't say no to it. Now, hold still, lad…"

It was still too painful to wear a false leg. He did well enough on crutches, anyway. The crutches also made it easier to beg. He'd never thought that he'd resort to begging (but then, he'd never thought that he'd flee Paris, either). It was a strange, humbling experience. All his life he'd been told that beggars were really just thieves; men and women pretending to be disabled in one way or another to take money from those foolish enough to give it to them. Begging for money, though…it was shameful to him. At least Esmerelda had earned her own money with her dancing!

He found himself thinking of Esmerelda more and more. She was his only comfort, his only reason for going back to Paris. When he fell and wanted to scream with agony and frustration, he thought of her and pulled himself back up. When youths threw stones at him and made fun of his missing leg, he thought of her and ignored them. He would get back to Paris, and he would find Esmerelda, and then they would never ever be parted again.

~xXx~

He didn't need to run; he knew where his uncle was and, though the message was an urgent one, he knew he didn't need to run to find him. He ran because he loved it. What he truly wanted was to fly, to soar through the air like the birds. Running was the next best thing. He was still young and foolish enough to believe that he'd become airborne if he ran faster, and now he ran as fast as his feet could carry him. He'd had to leave Pierre and Marie behind in the Court because they couldn't keep up. Pierre would be angry about it later, he was certain of it. Finding his uncle was much too important, and Pierre and Marie (especially Marie) would slow him down.

"Uncle!" he stopped, gasping, beside the puppet theatre.

"Yes, Giovanni?" His uncle, as always, was nonchalant. It wasn't that Clopin didn't care, of course; Giovanni ran everywhere and delivered every message, no matter how trivial, with a sense of urgency. Whether it was news about someone being arrested or what his aunt was preparing for dinner, he bolted to tell Clopin and then gasped the news out as fast as he could before running off again.

He took a deep breath, his lungs screaming for more air than he could possibly give them. He leaned forward, his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath. The one thing he hated about running was having to stop. He sucked in the air, then righted himself.

"Aunt Cassandra's had her baby!"

He heard the marionettes clatter to the ground and laughed as his uncle burst out of the theatre, leaping over the stage with the grace of a cat. A handful of nearby Gypsies had formed a small crowd around them. Giovanni could hear them congratulating his uncle, could see them patting him on the back.

"What is it?" Clopin asked, nearly as breathless as Giovanni had been only moments ago. "Is it a boy or a girl? Is it healthy? Your aunt – is she all right?"

Giovanni nodded. "The baby's a girl," he said. "Aunt Cassandra's fine. She told me to come and get you – "

"Yes," said Clopin, "yes, let's go."

They both ran back to the Court, and Giovanni found himself barely able to keep up with his uncle.

~xXx~

As much as he disliked the bell tower, it was the only home he'd ever known, and he was grateful for it. It was better than being outside, at least. The loneliness was infinitely better than the stares and occasional jeers he got from the people in the street. That, and every time he saw a Gypsy, he was reminded painfully of Esmerelda. He'd seen Frollo a handful of times, sometimes accompanied by a little boy. He had never spoken to him, of course, but he'd watched. The little boy had curly blonde hair and was very pale, as though he never saw the sun. He was remarkably quiet as well, holding Frollo's hand as they walked. Frollo occasionally picked him up and carried him.

Quasimodo couldn't bear to look at the little boy. The boy was living proof that Frollo had forced Esmerelda to choose him and that he'd raped her too. He wondered how Esmerelda felt about the little boy. Could she look at him and not see his horrible father? Could she even love him? Quasimodo certainly couldn't. He couldn't even bring himself to like the little boy, which he realized was unfair because the boy was only two or three at the oldest.

He hadn't seen Esmerelda in years. Frollo probably had her locked in a room somewhere. He wondered what she did in her spare time, what she thought about. Did she still remember how to dance? That was the image that stuck out most in Quasimodo's mind – Esmerelda's graceful, twirling body. She was all he had ever loved.

~xXx~

He hadn't drank this much since his wedding, but he kept telling himself that this was a special occasion. It wasn't every day that one became a father, after all. Rosalie handed him another glass of beer, clinking her own against it. "You're a father now," she laughed, "now you'll see why so many people pay you to entertain their children!"

"Well," he said, "I like to think I've had some practice with Giovanni…"

"He's a good boy," said Rosalie. She turned, watching Giovanni running about with her two children, Pierre and Marie. "Have you named the baby yet?"

"Theresa."

Rosalie nodded, taking another swig of her beer. She was one of the few women on the Council of Elders, and the only woman Clopin knew who could out-drink every man she'd ever known. It was a shame that her husband had died so soon after Marie's birth, but if Rosalie ever felt depressed about it, she never told anyone. Pierre and Marie had barely known him; Clopin doubted if Marie could even remember him.

"Theresa Trouillefou," said Rosalie. She nodded. "It sounds good." She raised her glass, grinning, "to Theresa Trouillefou!"

"To Theresa Trouillefou!"


	4. Six Years Later, 1496

SIX YEARS LATER (1496)…

Her father (her false-father, as her mother constantly assured her) was ill, or at least pretending to be. For years he'd complained about the Festival of Fools and how it was his "solemn duty" to attend it. He referred to it as "moral degradation," calling it an "unholy abomination of society."

Katarina didn't particularly care about what her false-father thought. He wasn't attending the Festival, and he wasn't watching over her like a hawk either. He was in the study, nose buried in some heavy law book, occasionally coughing. She, on the other hand, was going to go to the Festival, and no one would stop her. She'd have to return in time for lunch, of course. That wouldn't be difficult. Lunch was always served when the bells of Notre Dame finished striking twelve; she'd be able to rush home in time. Her false-father would be none the wiser.

She opened the door, turning the knob slowly, savoring the feel of the smooth brass beneath her palm. She took a deep breath, checking back over her shoulder. If Jean-Claude saw her, he'd tell on her for sure. There was no sign of him, and Katarina breathed a sigh of relief. She opened the door and stepped out into the world for the very first time.

~xXx~

The bell tower was blissfully quiet compared with the streets outside. He often wondered if what had happened to Esmerelda was his fault. If he hadn't left that day, if he had stayed inside like he was supposed to, would Frollo have become so enamored with her? After all, he loved and hated the way she openly defied him; it was as though he suddenly had to break her.

If he'd never left the bell tower, would Esmerelda be Frollo's prisoner? Quasimodo leaned against the wall, thinking. Maybe it was time for him to leave Paris. It had become a wretched, ugly place in his mind, full of hate and cruelty. He could leave, go somewhere, anywhere. It wouldn't matter, really, where he went. He'd still be an outcast, of course, because of his deformities. It didn't matter.

Maybe some of Esmerelda's old friends would help him. Quasimodo knew that they were itching to leave Paris too. They'd been struggling to for the past thirteen years, ever since the night Esmerelda was captured. It was strange. The city had once been so hell-bent on expelling them, but now it locked them in.

The world had truly become topsy-turvy.

~xXx~

The Festival was loud and chaotic, almost too much for Katarina, but she loved it anyway. There were so many different things to see and taste and touch and smell. The city was thick with people of all different shapes and sizes. They juggled and danced and clowned about, and Katarina thought she'd never be able to stop laughing.

It was amazing! Her false-father was wrong, totally wrong, about the outside world. It was loud and crazy and beautiful, all at the same time. And people weren't unkind or evil, at least, none that she'd encountered. Of course, she hadn't noticed the pickpockets who were dismayed to find that she had nothing; her eyes were busy following acrobats and puppeteers.

She'd had no idea the world was so colorful, either. Her house was filled with drab, dark, subdued colors. Out here, a whole rainbow of colors exploded before her very eyes. Her false-father was wrong, so very wrong, about the world. She debated telling him. He'd be furious to know she'd left the house, of course. Her mother had always promised that she'd leave the house some day, and now that day had come. She wasn't a child anymore, after all. If her younger brother could leave the house, then it stood to reason that she should be able to.

Jean-Claude would be so jealous if he could see her now. As uppity as he was, it would be impossible for him not to love the Festival. It was just so bright and dazzling and fun. The acrobats were especially impressive, the way they could somersault through midair.

She didn't realize that the bells were ringing at first, but she stopped and listened, standing perfectly still. Was it eleven or twelve? Had the time really flown so fast? She turned and looked around. Nothing looked familiar in the least. She tilted her head, trying desperately to block out the cacophony of voices and instruments. She didn't know where she was. She stepped backwards, trying to escape the bursts of noise and color.

~xXx~

It was not the first time someone had fallen through the side of the tent during the Festival. With all the beer consumed during the Festival, he was always amazed that drunken revelers didn't come crashing in more often.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" The girl was crying, and he rushed to her, thinking that she was hurt.

"There, there now," he said, helping her up, "you're all right."

"I'm lost," she blurted out. She stared up at him, her green eyes overflowing with tears. She was thirteen or so, much too old to become lost so easily. He'd never seen her before, so perhaps she was new to the city, or maybe she'd come with her parents for the Festival and gotten separated from them.

"It's all right," he said, "I'll help you. What do your parents look like?"

She shook her head. "I've got to get home," she said. "I – I'm not supposed to go out, and I have to get home before they notice – "

He nodded. "I see." It was by far one of the strangest stories he'd ever heard. How could a girl in Paris grow up without ever leaving her house? What sort of parents did she have? "What's your name?" he asked. If the girl didn't know what street she lived on, he might recognize her last name, or know someone who would.

"Katarina Frollo."

He had to struggle to maintain his composure and disbelief. The girl was too distraught to notice; she was now staring at her hands, which she was wringing anxiously. Was this little blonde girl the product of Esmerelda and Frollo? She did have Esmerelda's bright green eyes, and perhaps Frollo had been a blonde in his youth.

"You…you're the judge's daughter?" he asked.

The girl nodded. "Yes," she said, looking at him again. "My father's a judge."

"Ah." He debated questioning her about her mother. "Well, I know just where he lives – "

"You do? Can you take me there? I – I haven't any money to pay you, but maybe I can – "

He held his hand up. "I wouldn't take money even if you had it," he said. "Come on, let's get you home."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!" She grabbed his hand and he led her out of the tent.

"Your mother is named Esmerelda?"

"Yes." She looked startled for a moment. "Do you know her?"

"Yes," he said, "that is, we were friends before she married your father."

She paused, nodding. "What's your name?"

"Clopin Trouillefou."

"She's never mentioned you," she said, "but she…she doesn't talk much about her friends…I didn't even know she had any." She looked saddened by this statement, as though just realizing what she had said. "I mean, neither does my father, and…well, I suppose I don't either. I've never been outside my house until today."

"Why is that?"

"My father says it's unsafe." She rolled her eyes. "But he brings my brother outside all the time."

Clopin had known that Frollo would keep Esmerelda a prisoner for as long as he could. It seemed now that he was keeping their daughter prisoner as well. It was something the old man was good at, holding others against their will. Clopin now wondered about Esmerelda. Had she changed very much? Would he see her? And if he did, would she recognize him?

"That's my house!" Katarina stopped, pointing now at an ugly gray structure. The house looked more like a prison than anything. The curtains in each room were drawn tightly shut despite the gloriously sunny day. "Thank you so much!" She let go of his hand and started to run to the house when the door suddenly swung open.

~xXx~

She'd never seen her false-father looking so angry before in her whole life. She stopped dead in her tracks, as if he wouldn't see her if she stopped moving. He stormed out of the house, his robes billowing in the wind.

"How dare you disobey me, Katarina!" He grabbed her wrist and she cried out in surprise.

"I – I'm sorry," she stammered. She knew that apologizing would be futile. Her false-father wasn't one to listen to apologies or explanations. She glanced back over her shoulder at Clopin, hoping he would take the hint and run.

He did just the opposite, calmly walking over to her false-father. "Sir," he said, "if you'll permit me to explain – "

"Go back to the Festival, you meddlesome cur, before I have you arrested for kidnapping my daughter!"

"Father, I – "

"But sir, you're being hard on the child – "

"Who are you to tell me how to raise my daughter?" her false-father bellowed now, letting go of her long enough to march over to Clopin and shake his fist at him. "Now get out of my sight!"

Clopin sighed. "Yes, sir." He turned and left wordlessly. Her false-father did not watch him go, but instead grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the house.

~xXx~

"Claude, you're being unreasonable!" It was not the first time she'd argued with him, but it was the first time she'd done so in front of Katarina.

"Stay out of this, Esmerelda." He spoke through gritted teeth. Katarina was staring up at him, her hands placed palm-up on his desk. He was holding the ruler, ready to strike her palms with it. Esmerelda went to him now, grabbing his wrist and trying to pry the ruler out of his hand.

"You can't keep her locked away in here forever," she said, "she has every right to leave – "

He shoved her. She stumbled backwards, stunned at his strength. Despite his advanced age, he was still much stronger than her. He brought the ruler crashing down on Katarina's left hand, and she screamed. "She has no right to disobey me," he said, turning to her, ignoring Katarina's high-pitched sobs. "If I tell her to stay in this house, then she has no right to leave it!"

"You let Jean-Claude leave!" sobbed Katarina, glaring at him through her tears, hate blazing in her eyes.

"It is different," he said, "Jean-Claude is studying the law. He goes to the Palace of Justice, the libraries, and Notre Dame – "

"Why can't I?" asked Katarina.

"Your place is here with your mother. You are to study her so that you can make a proper home when you grow up. You are a young woman, that is what young women do – "

"I saw lots of women outside!"

"What you saw were thieves and harlots. Is that what you want to become, Katarina, a harlot? Do you want to sully your body and disgrace your family?"

"Claude – "

"No, Father, but it's different!"

"Is it, Katarina?" he stared at her now, rapping the edge of the ruler against the desk. Katarina looked up at him, wringing her hands. "What do you suppose the men are like out there? That man who brought you home – what if he hadn't? What if he'd ravished you?"

"Father, he didn't! He was kind and brought me back and – "

"Men like him only want one thing, Katarina. They want your maidenhood, and they will use force to take it from you. Is that what you want, Katarina? Do you want to be ravished and then thrown into the gutter like a harlot? Because that will happen to you out there. I've seen it happen to far too many girls your age, and I will not let it happen to you."

Katarina shook her head. Esmerelda had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming at Frollo now, from telling Katarina about the dark night when she'd been forced into marriage and all the dark nights that had followed. She wanted to grab him and shake him and call him what he really was, not husband but rapist. She remembered him standing there, so calm, so serene, watching his guards attacking the poor girl they'd dragged in. The girl screaming and crying, the guards sneering at her, groping and grabbing at her clothing…it all hung in her head like a dark cloud. Whoever had brought Katarina back home was obviously a good person. The world was full of them. Why couldn't he realize that? Why couldn't he see that the world was good and it was he who was bad?

"Claude," she said, trying to remain calm, "the world isn't full of bad people – "

He turned to her, letting the ruler clatter to the desk. There was something genuinely frightening about the way he was staring at her. Esmerelda swallowed and made an effort to stand up straighter, to appear unafraid. "This is your fault," he said finally, "you've filled her head with falsehoods – "

"I've only told her the truth!"

He stuck her, his hand moving too fast for her to see it until it was too late. She heard Katarina gasp. She put her hand to her cheek. It felt hot, as though it was on fire. "Don't you dare interrupt me," he shouted. "You filled her head with lies about the world! You've undermined me, turned my own daughter against me! It ends tonight, Esmerelda. I will arrange to have her sent to a nunnery before the week is out."

He turned and stormed out of the room before she or Katarina could react. Katarina was staring down at her hands, still rubbing her left palm, which bore a red mark from where the ruler had struck her. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

~xXx~

He couldn't sleep. He'd spent the entire day re-playing the fleeting moments with Esmerelda's daughter over and over again in his mind. He sat up glancing briefly at Cassandra. She had always slept soundly, heavily. He got up and dressed in the dark, slipping out of the caravan.

Frollo had created a curfew shortly after marrying Esmerelda, and had enforced it. Tonight was different. The city was sleeping soundly, exhausted from the Festival. The guards charged with the task of patrolling the streets were lying in doorways, too sleepy from wine and beer to even think about staying awake. Clopin passed them without stopping to look at them.

He reached the judge's house easily and climbed over the gate. The house was surrounded by thick trees that blocked out the moonlight, making it look darker and more frightening. Clopin moved through the garden and towards the house. A face appeared in the window, a pair of large green eyes staring at him. He stopped, waiting, as the window opened and Esmerelda leaned out, beckoning to him.

"Clopin!" she whispered as he approached. "I'd hoped you'd come back!"

He stared at her, not quite knowing what to say. She looked so small and pale in the window. Even though she was smiling, he could see the sorrow in her eyes. "Esmerelda…" he took hold of her hands. "What…what has he done to you?"

She shook her head, still forcing the smile. "You must do something for me," she said.

"Anything." He'd grown up with Esmerelda, loved her like a sister. The two of them had been thick as thieves in their youth, together so often they'd practically known what the other was thinking.

"It's Katarina," she said. "He wants to send her away – to a nunnery in Reims – because she disobeyed him."

"I take it she doesn't want to go."

"No! I can't let him send her! She – she's all I have left of Phoebus…"

"You mean, she isn't Frollo's?"

Esmerelda shook her head, tears filling her eyes. "No. Phoebus and I – before we were captured…anyway, Katarina is not Frollo's daughter, and I will not let him send her away."

"You want me to take her?" He thought, trying to think of ways to feed and clothe another child. He had three of his own, plus Giovanni, to look after. Frollo would no doubt come looking for the girl as well; where could they hide her? If they couldn't leave the city, where would they hide her? Perhaps it was time to leave the city by force. Perhaps it was time to kill the guards who barred their way and leave Paris or die trying. Come hell or high water, they would leave Paris.

"He's bringing her in two weeks' time," said Esmerelda. "I will let her out every day, so that she may learn her way around the city. Will you watch after her? Make sure no harm comes to her?"

"Yes, of course."

"And on the last day – "

"On the last day we will leave Paris," he said, "and we will bring Katarina with us."


	5. Still 1496, Part I

STILL 1496…

Katarina was like an eternal mystery to him. Her false-father (he apparently had no idea that she wasn't his actual child) was none other than Judge Claude Frollo, and he kept her mother locked away. Katarina herself was forbidden to leave her house, but her mother helped her sneak out anyway. Katarina rarely spoke about this, but when she did, her voice was filled with vehemence for her false-father, who she now referred to as "the judge."

She wasn't like any other girl he'd ever met. She ran everywhere as though the devil himself was chasing her, and he found that he had to run as fast as he could to keep up. He felt sorry for Pierre and Marie, who were always calling for them to wait. Pierre was short, and never went anywhere without holding his sister's hand. She was deaf, and he was deathly afraid of losing her in the crowd.

"How can I find her if she can't hear me calling?" Pierre always asked.

Giovanni was certain that Marie wasn't as helpless as Pierre thought her to be, but he rarely said so. After all, she was capable of helping Pierre pick pockets, acting as a decoy and distracting his targets while he snatched their purses. At first Katarina had been shocked by this, scolding Pierre about moral decency the first time she'd seen him steal.

"Come on, Katarina," he said. "These people would never let me work for them. How else am I supposed to earn money? And besides, I only take what my family needs."

He bought a small loaf of bread from one of the street vendors, breaking it into pieces. He handed them out, and Katarina took one, hesitating before eating it. "I suppose you're right," she said, watching as Pierre handed the biggest piece to his little sister.

Katarina liked helping him and his uncle with the puppet theatre, but Giovanni could tell that she preferred exploring the city to anything else. Paris was so familiar to him, so foreign to her. She especially loved the side-streets and alleyways, darting in and out of them. It was as if she just couldn't stay still.

"Katarina, wait!"

"Can't you keep up?" she laughed, "come on, there's a dressmaker's shop back here. They throw out the scraps of cloth, I'm sure your uncle – " She stopped suddenly and grabbed his wrist, pulling him behind a row of garbage cans.

"What are we – ?"

"Shhh!" She pulled him down, forcing him onto his knees. The smell was awful; they were near the butcher's shop, and the stench of rotting meat hung heavily in the air. "It's the Judge."

He peeked out from behind the garbage can. He'd seen Judge Claude Frollo before, but he'd never been this close to him. He was a tall, pale, angry-looking man. A dark-haired boy was standing beside him. He was holding several thick, heavy-looking books under his arm. He was pale, like the Judge, and had the same bright blue eyes. He glanced at Katarina. She had pressed her hands against her mouth and nose, either to block out the smell or to hide even more. She was staring at the Judge, her eyes wide with fright.

The Judge peered down the alley, turning to talk to the boy. Giovanni couldn't hear them. The boy started to take a few steps into the alley, but the Judge grabbed his arm, and then they left. Katarina jumped up the moment they were out of sight.

"I've got to go home," she said, staring at the spot where they'd been. "He might've seen me – "

"If he'd seen you, wouldn't he have come in?"

She shook her head. "No," she said. "He's clever that way. He'll go and see if I'm at home." She turned away from the entrance to the alley now. "I've got to go. I'll see you tomorrow."

She took off, racing to the end of the alley and scrambling over the fence like a cat. She was gone, her footfalls fading and blending in with the noise of the street. Giovanni stared at the fence, then turned and left the alley. He would have to tell his uncle about this, and his uncle wouldn't be pleased. He and Katarina had both been warned to stay away from the Palace of Justice. To be fair, they weren't anywhere near the place. What would Frollo be doing so far from it?

He left the alley, glancing around. Frollo and the boy were talking with the butcher. He walked past them, his head down, hoping they wouldn't notice.

"Giovanni!" he felt Pierre grab his elbow. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to stay away from – "

"Quiet or they'll hear you."

"Where is – "

"Home." He paused looking at Pierre and Marie. "She ran home," he added in a whisper. "Don't worry."

"You there, boy!" It took him a moment to realize that he was the one being addressed, and Giovanni turned, puzzled. The boy who had been standing beside Frollo was approaching them. He was young, no more than ten, but he walked with the same pompous, self-righteous air as his father. "What were you doing in that alley?"

"What business is it of yours?" he asked.

The boy glared darkly at him. He was younger than Giovanni, probably by three years at least. "I asked you a question, now answer me or my father – "

"I was relieving my bladder," said Giovanni, "you can go check if you can stand the smell." Marie giggled into her hands. The boy glowered at her, and Pierre put his arm around her shoulders.

"It looked like you were back there with a girl."

"A girl? I should be so lucky!"

"I am looking for a girl," said the boy, "my sister. She's about as tall as you are and has a long blonde braid."

"You've described half the girls in Paris," said Pierre.

"I didn't ask you!"

"We haven't seen her," said Giovanni. "Good luck finding her."

~xXx~

It felt like her lungs were on fire. She'd never run so hard or so fast in her whole life. She bolted into the house, startling her mother and nearly fainting.

"I saw – with Giovanni – the Judge – I think – I – "

"Get upstairs. Change your dress, and start reading your Bible." Her mother grabbed her arms and half-dragged her to the staircase. She nodded, breaking free of her and bolting up the stairs. "Comb your hair!" her mother called up after her.

She changed quickly, noticing for the first time the mud spatters on the hem of her dress. She shoved the garment under the bed. She looked in the mirror now, gasping at the state of her hair. The braid had not come undone completely, but errant locks of hair now framed her face. It looked as though she'd just run pell-mell through the streets of Paris. She undid the braid quickly and sat down before the mirror, trying to steady her breathing as she brushed her hair.

She'd just redone the braid when she heard the front door slam. She grabbed her Bible and flipped it open, forcing her eyes to read the printed words. She could hear her mother speaking to her false-father in muffled tones, stalling him, keeping him downstairs as long as she could. Her false-father was climbing the stairs now. Katarina took a deep breath and looked at the door as it opened.

"Father," she said, smiling and trying to sound bright, "you're home so early!"

"I thought I should come and see you, Katarina," he said, gliding into the room. "I saw a girl this morning who reminded me of you. You've been studying your scriptures all morning?"

"Yes, Father," she said.

"The Mother Superior will be pleased," he said, "you leave for Reims next week."

"I know," she said, "and I'm looking forward to it."

"You are?" he arched an eyebrow at her.

"Oh yes," she said, "since I've been studying the Bible, I've grown to like the idea of becoming a nun, devoting my life to God."

"I am happy for you, Katarina." He patted her head, turning to leave. "I am very happy for you."

She watched him leave, waiting until he had closed the door and descended the stairs before breathing a sigh of relief. She leaned back in her chair, closing the Bible.

~xXx~

"I told you time and time again to stay away from the Palace of Justice – "

"But Uncle, we weren't near the Palace of Justice! We were by the butcher shop! I don't think he saw us, and Katarina ran right home after he was gone…"

If Frollo knew that Katarina was sneaking out, it could upset the whole plan. Clopin leaned back and thought. Several groups of Gypsies – most of them families – had already left Paris, bribing the guards at the crossroads and heading for Lyon. There was no way of telling them that something had gone wrong, that the plan was a bust. Hopefully, Frollo hadn't seen the girl and wasn't the least bit suspicious.

Clopin silently cursed himself for letting her and Giovanni wander off in the first place. Katarina had been helping with the puppet theatre, but he could tell that she'd become bored with it. Paris was so new to her, and she wanted so badly to explore it. He'd assumed she would be perfectly safe with Giovanni, and besides, the Gringoire children were with them too. Giovanni rarely went anywhere without Pierre, and Pierre never left his sister behind. Safety in numbers, though Clopin. At least Katarina could run faster than the wind. Hopefully Frollo hadn't seen her at all.

He would have to go and see Esmerelda tonight, and he dreaded it. He wanted to see her more than anything, but unlike the night of the Fesitval, the guards would not be sleeping drunkards. They'd be awake and sober, and he would have to find a way around them. It could be done, but he couldn't afford to get caught. Being caught out after curfew was a surefire way to end up in the stocks or a prison cell.

"It's all right, Giovanni," he said, "go help your aunt, will you?" He could hear the baby crying again. Cassandra had insisted on naming their first son after him, and he was certain that that was the reason for the baby's fussiness. Jacques-Clopin was nothing like his sisters, Theresa and Martine, in terms of fussiness. Theresa and Martine had been easy babies, laughing and cooing and rarely crying.

Giovanni was coming back with his cousins in tow. Clopin got up and took little Jacques-Clopin from him.

"Mama says we were in the way," said Martine matter-of-factly.

"Ah," he said, bouncing Jacques-Clopin in his arms. "Well then, I suppose I'll have to tell you a story."

~xXx~

She paced anxiously by the window. She'd hoped that Clopin would come by. She wanted to tell him that Frollo didn't suspect a thing, that Katarina had fooled him. She was so proud of Katarina. Frollo was not, by any means, an easy man to fool, and Katarina had somehow succeeded. Despite her breathlessness and flushed cheeks, she'd managed to make him think that she'd been home reading her Bible, not out.

She heard the bushes rustle and saw Clopin emerge. She opened the window, beckoning to him, and he came forward quickly.

"He doesn't suspect a thing," she whispered, "he thinks she was in her room studying the Bible all day."

"All right," he said, "but she's got to be more careful tomorrow."

Esmerelda smiled, "I've already taken care of that," she said. "I've made her a disguise."


	6. Still 1496, Part II

STILL 1496…

She could not understand why Giovanni was laughing at her, and she waited patiently for him to stop, her hands on her hips. Leaving the house disguised as a boy was a brilliant idea. She loved wearing trousers; it was so much easier to run in them. They still felt a bit strange. She wasn't used to having her legs so confined. The hat felt funny too, itchy. She reached up under it, scratching at her head. She couldn't take it off; her long blonde hair was tightly coiled beneath it.

"What's so funny?" she asked finally.

"Nothing," gasped Giovanni, "you just look…different, that's all…"

Marie turned to Pierre, her hands fluttering gracefully in the air. Katarina secretly loved the way Marie communicated with her hands and was dying to learn how. She'd picked up a few finger-symbols, things like 'hello' and 'thank you.'

"She says you make a prettier boy than Giovanni here," Pierre said, laughing.

"Come on," said Giovanni, "my uncle says we have to help with the puppet theatre today."

She waved goodbye to Pierre and Marie as they turned and melted into the crowd. She liked the puppet theatre, the playing and the clowning. She liked the way the stiff wooden marionettes glided so smoothly through the air, as though they were flying. She'd rather explore, but she knew better than to complain. After all, she'd had a very narrow escape the day before and didn't want to repeat it. It had been thrilling, in a way. Racing to get home before the Judge, scrambling over fences and through side-streets. She'd been pleasantly surprised that she'd succeeded in fooling him, but secretly doubted that she could do it again.

"Do I really look that funny?" she asked, turning to Giovanni.

"No," he said. "My uncle said you'd have a disguise, but I just didn't think it would be…I didn't think you'd be dressed as a boy. It's a good disguise, though. He'll never recognize you."

"That's the point."

~xXx~

"I followed yesterday's caravan," said Rosalie. "The guards are so easy to bribe. They don't suspect a thing."

"Good," he said. "I just hope Esmerelda was right about Frollo."

"He would've come here if he suspected anything," she said.

"That's true."

Rosalie paused, watching the children. Pierre, Marie, Katarina, Giovanni, Theresa, and Martine sat in a circle on the ground, passing around a small loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese that Pierre had probably swiped from an unsuspecting grocer in the marketplace. "How is she? Esmerelda, I mean."

Clopin shrugged. It had pained him to see Esmerelda. She'd looked so different, as though she wasn't really alive anymore. It wasn't something he particularly wanted to discuss in great detail, but he knew that Rosalie would get it out of him one way or another. Persistence was one of her virtues, or perhaps a vice, he couldn't tell. "She's pale," he said, "and frightened-looking. I asked her to come with us, but…she says he'll come after her."

"He'll come after his daughter, and we're taking her, aren't we?"

"I told her that," he said. "The bastard's made her too terrified to even think about running away from him."

Rosalie turned and spat. "Perhaps it's Phoebus. Perhaps she won't leave because Phoebus is dead, because she has nothing without him."

"She has her daughter, she has us – "

"I know that! I just don't think she does." Rosalie sighed. Cassandra was emerging from the tent now, Jacques-Clopin strapped to her back. She sat down beside him, and he handed her an apple.

"It's funny to see her in trousers," she said, motioning to Katarina. "She loves them so much."

"Perhaps we should start wearing them too," laughed Rosalie, "makes running easier."

Cassandra laughed. "The Judge would just die of shame if he saw her now."

"Perhaps we should go fetch him," said Rosalie, "it would solve a lot of problems."

"That it would," said Clopin, "that it would."

~xXx~

Following the River Rhône had led him to Lyon. Paris was still miles – it felt like thousands and thousands of miles – away. He would start off once he'd regained his strength. Crutches or no, traveling with one leg was unbearable. He sometimes wondered if he would've gotten back to Paris sooner if he hadn't lost the leg, but had learned to push the thoughts from his mind. They only made him more bitter and remorseful than he already was.

He thought of Esmerelda, imagined her waiting at the window for him. She would leap into his arms once he slew Frollo. She would embrace him and kiss him, and they would run away together. They would leave Paris, maybe go back to Lyon. It was a nice enough place. The countryside surrounding it was lovely; Esmerelda would like it. He imagined her picking wildflowers, weaving them into chains and wearing them in her hair.

She was so beautiful, and no matter what Frollo did to her, she always would be.

~xXx~

She was starting to regret sending Katarina out. What if Frollo came home again? What if he saw her and recognized her? True, she was dressed as a boy, but what if she got careless?

Esmerelda sat down, wringing her hands. She'd been pacing back and forth all morning, looking at the clock on the wall. She'd been unable to focus on her needlepoint; it was a stupid, pointless hobby that Frollo approved of. The walls were decorated with tapestries and samplers, each of them reminding her of her imprisonment here. She glared at them now, reaching for her sewing basket and pulling a sheaf of white cloth from it. She looked down at the half-finished sampler, smiling to herself.

This was to be Katarina's farewell gift. It bore her true name – Katarina Phoebus – in fancy purple and gold lettering. Esmerelda ran her hands over it, then picked up her needle and began to work on it. After Katarina left, she would never see her again. She was still struggling to accept this, but she knew that Katarina would never be truly happy living in Frollo's house.

Clopin wanted her to come with them. She wanted to, she desperately wanted to, but she knew deep down that she couldn't. She couldn't remember much of her former life, how to pick pockets or how to scrounge for food. She would just be a burden; she would slow the caravan down. Frollo would come after her. He might not go after Katarina, especially if she told him who the girl's real father was. He might not care about Phoebus's child, and he might just let her leave.

He would never let Esmerelda leave. He would hunt her down, killing everyone who stood in his path. Clopin said that the caravan was going to Lyon, but Esmerelda knew that Frollo would find them. He would reach Lyon and burn it to the ground if it meant keeping her prisoner.

Esmerelda sighed and kept stitching, pushing all thoughts of her former life out of her mind. She could never go back. She understood that. Even if Clopin and Rosalie welcomed her back with open arms, the others would stare at her. They'd whisper about her. After all, she'd married Frollo and borne one of his children. The rest of the Gypsies would know, and they would stare and whisper and point. She couldn't bear that anymore than she could bear seeing them killed over her.

~xXx~

He wouldn't bother with the Gypsies. It was clear to him that they wouldn't leave Paris any time soon. If they hadn't left the night Esmerelda was taken, then they wouldn't leave now. There were only two men posted at the main road leading out of Paris, and they had let Quasimodo through without incident. Surely the Gypsies could have bribed or forced their way through; it seemed more and more like they were staying in Paris by choice. Whether they were staying out of solidarity for her or because they still liked Paris was a mystery, but Quasimodo didn't care about it.

He'd already found and trained a replacement bell ringer. Some of the priests were sad to see him go, but none of them had asked him not to. They'd merely given him their blessings and wished him well.

The main road to Lyon was crowded, full of people and wagons and animals. He kept to the lesser roads, the side roads that cut through the woods. An old man had told him that walking along the River Loire would get him to Lyon much quicker than the main road, and he was glad he'd taken the man's advice. The countryside was beautiful. In all his life, he'd never imagined a world outside of Paris. It was breathtaking. The river was clean and cold, much unlike the Seine, which had a drab gray color to it.

He had left the majority of his possessions back in the bell tower. He doubted that his replacement would care about the miniature replica of Paris, or that he'd notice a certain wooden figure was missing. Quasimodo carried the carving of Esmerelda in a cloth sack around his neck, taking it out occasionally to gaze into the smiling face he'd painted so long ago.

He would certainly never forget Esmerelda, and he occasionally wondered if he should go back to Paris for her sake. He knew he'd never see her; Frollo would never let her leave his sight. Still, he sometimes felt as though he was abandoning her.

~xXx~

It was funny and confusing to see Katarina in boys' clothes. She found trousers almost as amazing as she found Paris. Giovanni had noticed her looking at her own reflection in a store window earlier. The trousers only helped her run faster; she could outrun him now, much to his chagrin.

The air in the Court buzzed with excitement. They were to leave Paris at the end of the week. Several families had left already. Giovanni knew that his family would be leaving last, and that Katarina would be coming with them, hidden in one of his uncle's trunks. The trunk was green and purple and had a false bottom; his uncle used it for magic tricks. The secret compartment was just big enough for Katarina to fit curled up inside of it. He could tell that she hated the idea. She'd begged Clopin not to put her in the trunk, but he was insistent about it. If one of the guards should see through her disguise, they would all be sent to prison.

Katarina never talked about leaving Paris. Every time he tried to bring it up, she would change the subject. He wondered if it was because her mother wouldn't be accompanying them. He had tried asking both Katarina and his uncle about this, but neither had given him a straight answer.

"She just can't," said Katarina. "She just can't."

"Go help your aunt," said his uncle, waving him away.

"The situation with Katarina's mother is very complicated," said his aunt, handing him a wooden spoon and motioning for him to stir the contents of the supper pot. The stew smelled pleasant, rich and meaty. "It isn't my place to tell you the full story. I doubt Katarina even knows it." She sighed, picking up Jacques-Clopin. She sat down, draping her shawl over her torso as she began to nurse the baby. "Once we've left, I'm sure Clopin can tell you."

Not knowing why they were leaving Paris was frustrating. Clopin and Rosalie had orchestrated a mass exodus, but it felt like no one knew why they were leaving.

"Mother won't tell us," said Pierre, shrugging. "She says Paris has grown 'too harsh' for us." He sighed, glancing over at Marie, who was playing some sort of game that involved stacking rocks. "I will miss it, I suppose. But Mother says that Lyon is a better place…"

"What does Marie think?"

Pierre shrugged. "She's excited. She thinks it's an adventure." He watched her, biting his lower lip. "What…what do you think makes Katarina so…special?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, why are we leaving Paris and bringing her?"

"It has something to do with her mother. The Judge is keeping them both prisoner or something, and we're helping Katarina escape."

"But why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are we helping her?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. It's the right thing to do, I suppose."


	7. Still 1496, Part III

STILL 1496…

"Shhh! Stay down or he'll see us!"

They were once again behind a row of garbage cans, but at least they weren't near the butcher's shop again. Giovanni peeked out. Katarina had spotted her younger brother again. He wasn't with the Judge this time, but was in the market place by himself, examining fruit at one of the stands.

"He's not even looking at us," said Giovanni, "and besides, I doubt he'll notice you, let alone recognize you."

"Shhh!"

Pierre rolled his eyes. "I'll go create a diversion," he said, taking Marie's hand and leading her out of the alley before Katarina could protest. Giovanni watched as they made their way to the fruit stand. Pierre let go of Marie's hand, motioning for her to approach Katarina's brother from the left while he took the right.

"They're going to pick his pocket!" whispered Katarina, her eyes wide with shock.

"I doubt it," said Giovanni, watching as Marie pushed past the boy, shoving him into Pierre.

"Hey! Watch where you're going!" cried Pierre, dropping the orange he was holding. It hit the ground hard, splattering all over Katarina's brother's shoes and Pierre's bare feet. "Look at that! I'll have to pay for it, and I didn't even get to eat it!"

"As if you've got the money to pay for that, Gypsy," sneered Katarina's brother. "You were probably going to steal it!"

Pierre glared at him as he reached into his pockets and pulled out a coin. "You made me drop it, you should be the one paying for it!"

"Come on," whispered Giovanni, grabbing Katarina's wrist and pulling her out from behind the garbage cans. "While he isn't looking." Katarina got up reluctantly, trying to look casual as she followed him down the street, past her younger brother. "There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" asked Giovanni once they were well away from him. He looked at Katarina. Her head was down, her face hidden by the brim of her hat. "What's your brother's name, anyway?"

"Jean-Claude," she said. She still wouldn't look at him.

"Some brother you've got there!" Giovanni turned to see Pierre and Marie approaching them. "I'd have broken his nose if he hadn't run off!"

Katarina shrugged. "I'm sorry," she said, finally looking up. "He takes on after the Judge."

"Well, no harm done, really." Pierre winked at Marie, and she reached into her apron and pulled out two large oranges. She handed one to Katarina and began peeling the other one, letting the scraps of orange rind fall to the ground. "Marie managed to get us lunch while the grocer was distracted."

Katarina smiled. She stared at the orange, then started to peel it. "It's strange that he was out here by himself," she said after a while. She handed Giovanni a wedge of orange. "He usually doesn't go anywhere without the Judge. I mean, he's only ten…"

"So's Marie," said Pierre, his mouth full of orange.

"And she never goes anywhere without you," said Katarina.

Pierre shrugged, but said nothing.

~xXx~

They would leave in four days exactly. They would be the last caravan to leave Paris, and by the time Frollo realized that Katarina was missing, they'd be well away from the city. If all went well, he wouldn't connect the sudden disappearance of his daughter with that of the Gypsies. Cassandra had had the idea to make it look as though one of Frollo's own men had snatched her by planting some of her clothing in his house. Clopin liked the idea; perhaps Frollo would finally see the truth about the men he'd convinced himself were good.

"They should have been back by now," he said. He hadn't liked the idea of letting Katarina and Giovanni take a break from the puppet theatre, but he'd given in because Katarina only had four days left in Paris. It was sad, really; she barely knew the city, yet she loved it so much.

He had spent most of his life in Paris, and he would be sad to leave it. The climate was growing too harsh, though. Frollo had been corrupt long before stealing Esmerelda, and now he ruled Paris with an iron fist. His curfew was only part of the problem. He let the guards in his employ terrorize the citizens of Paris, especially those of Gypsy descent. It was times like this when he realized just how lucky Giovanni was to have fair hair and blue eyes; he was practically invisible to the guards who constantly accused Gypsy children of picking pockets and stealing.

Clopin had warned Pierre to stop his thievery, but the boy was cocky. He hadn't been caught yet, and he kept insisting that he was careful, that he wouldn't be caught. He was young enough to think that he was untouchable, and perhaps he was. It was amazing that he and his sister had never been caught. Especially the sister; she wasn't the quickest runner and was deaf to boot. He could only hope that they didn't get caught within the next four days.

"I'll miss it," said Cassandra, putting her arm around him. "The city, I mean. I've spent my whole life here…" She leaned against his shoulder, and he stroked her hair absently.

"I know," he said. "I'll miss it too, but not the way it is now. I'll miss the way it was before…" He let his voice trail off. He and Cassandra had never really spoken of the night it had all changed. Thinking about it now he realized that it had been the first time they'd met. The first time he'd seen her – really seen her – she'd been crying and holding her blouse together. He'd seen her and given her his jacket and held her in his arms, pulling her into the back of the cell, trying to protect her. She was so young…did she even really remember the way Paris was before this?

"Yes," she said, as if reading his thoughts, "I will miss the way it was." She looked up at him. "I'll miss the way the Festival used to be."

"Perhaps Lyon will have a Festival of Fools."

"Perhaps." She sighed. "I wish Theresa and Martine knew what Paris used to be."

"I love you," he said, surprising himself with the sudden declaration. He looked at her now, smiling. "I love you so much."

She kissed him. "I love you too."

~xXx~

"You there, boy!"

Katarina froze, but Pierre nudged her. "Keep moving," he whispered, reaching behind him to grab Marie's hand. "They're talking to me."

She forced herself to move forward, her back rigid, as Pierre, Marie, and Giovanni turned around. She recognized the voice that had called to them; it was the Judge. She knew instinctively that Jean-Claude would be by his side, as well as several guards. She took a deep breath, moving further down the narrow side-street, hoping she could reach the knot of people and blend into it before the Judge noticed her.

"Good day, your honor," said Pierre. "It's a lovely day, isn't it?"

"I understand you've been stealing from the fruit stand."

"Stealing? Not I, your honor! I've money to pay for fruit – "

"Don't lie to me, boy! I know your kind, and I've a witness here who says you were trying to steal an orange!"

"I swear on my mother, sir, I did no such – "

Katarina heard a cracking sound, and Marie screamed. She spun around. Pierre was leaning against a nearby wall, his hand pressed to his mouth. Blood was seeping out through his fingers. Marie was at his side, her hands fluttering in the air spastically. Giovanni was trying to calm her down, but she kept pushing his hands away. One of the guards was shaking his fist threateningly, his knuckles spattered with blood.

"Don't you lie to the good judge, boy," he snarled. Pierre's response was muffled, but he stepped in front of Marie protectively, grabbing her hand. "Speak up, Gypsy rat!"

"I said – "

"Katarina?"

Much to her horror, the Judge and Jean-Claude were both staring at her, mouths agape. Their expression was nearly identical, and it would've been funny in a different circumstance. Time seemed to stand still. Giovanni and Pierre both turned to look at her. Katarina felt as though her stomach had suddenly turned to ice. The Judge had seen her and recognized her. It felt like the world had come to a complete and total stop, as though she'd suddenly dropped dead. In her moment of panic, she didn't see Pierre tighten his grip on his sister's hand or pull her to the side so that they were both blocking the side-street.

"Run!"

She wasn't sure who yelled it, but her legs suddenly took on lives of their own. She turned and fled, plunging headlong into the crowd, only aware of the Judge screaming at the guards to stop her, to catch her at all costs. He had recognized her; there was no way she could run home and pretend that she'd been reading her Bible all day. No, she couldn't run home. Where could she run? Where could she possibly flee to? Her legs seemed to move faster than she thought possible. It was like the rest of the world had suddenly slowed down.

She darted through the crowd, pushing past people. She could feel her hat struggling to break free of her head; her mother had used hairpins to secure it. She could feel it slipping, and she grabbed at it, only to feel it fly free of her fingers. She turned, scrambling after it, but the Judge was behind her, shoving violently through the crowd. Their eyes locked, and she realized that her braid had come loose and was snaking around her shoulders. There could be no doubt in his mind about her now. She turned and fled, forgetting the hat.

She had to get to the Court of Miracles. She could hide down there. She hated the trunk with the false bottom, the one that Clopin had showed her and told her that she would have to travel in while they left Paris. She hated it more than anything, but now she bolted on towards it.

She darted into an alley. The Judge was far enough behind her to have lost her, she was certain. She dropped to her knees, struggling to pry the lid off of one of the sewer openings. She managed to nudge is aside and jumped in, holding her nose. The smell was worse than the butcher's shop, but she didn't care. She reached up, pulling the grate back over the opening, then turned and ran as fast as she could towards the Court of Miracles.

~xXx~

Pierre stepped in front of the guard, purposely blocking his path. Giovanni grabbed Marie's wrist, jerking her out of the way. The guard shoved Pierre hard, knocking him over. Marie was shrieking, reaching for Pierre with her free hand, but Giovanni succeeded in pulling her out of the side-street. He ran now, dragging her along, forcing her to keep up with him. The guards would probably chase them too; they would no doubt try to force information about Katarina out of them.

He glanced back over his shoulder, hoping to see what had become of Pierre. The streets were thick with people, and he couldn't see him. Two of the guards were making their way through the crowd, struggling to get to him and Marie. They were large men, overweight; Giovanni knew that he could outrun them. He just hoped that Marie could too.

He took off again. There was an alley just off of the marketplace. He and Marie could hide in it, or perhaps there was a sewer opening. If there was a sewer-hole, they'd be able to get to the Court undetected. He pushed on, gripping Marie's hand so tightly he thought he'd break her fingers. His heart felt as though it would explode. He'd never felt so frightened or desperate in all his life. He succeeded in pulling Marie into the alleyway and was relieved to find a sewer grate.

He struggled to pry it open. Marie bent to help, her hands shaking as she tugged at the grate. Once it was open enough for a body to fit inside, he motioned for her to jump in, and she did without question. He followed her, not bothering to close the grate behind him. He groped in the darkness, finding her hand. She squeezed him. They began to run again, this time not quite as fast as before. Marie was still struggling to keep up with him, pulling on his arm in an effort to slow him down. Giovanni kept going, tugging her forward until they burst into the Court.

"Marie! Marie!"

He was relieved to see Pierre, though probably not as much as Marie was. She threw herself at him, nearly knocking him down. He was sobbing, and a bruise had formed around his left eye. "Oh thank God, thank God, you're safe, Marie!" he cried, despite the fact that she couldn't hear him.

"Where's Katarina?" asked Giovanni, looking around. The Court was filled with people, but he couldn't see Katarina anywhere. What if they'd caught her? She was far too clever to get lost. They must have caught her. They must have!

"Pierre – Marie – oh my God, what's happened to you?"

Giovanni looked up to see his aunt and Pierre's mother rushing towards them. Pierre's mother was staring in disbelief at Pierre's bruised, bleeding face. Tears welled up in her eyes as she reached for him, putting her arms around both him and Marie. Giovanni had never seen an adult cry before, and it was suddenly more frightening than the encounter with the Judge and the guards.

"Where's Katarina?" he asked his aunt, silently praying that she was safe.

"She arrived before you did," said his aunt, taking him and leading him toward their caravan. "We've hidden her. Come on, I have to find a hiding place for you too."

~xXx~

It was quiet and cramped inside of the trunk. Katarina desperately tried to steady her breathing, afraid that everyone could hear her gasping for breath. She lay on her side, her knees bent painfully up to her chest. The false bottom of the trunk was not meant to house a human. She reached up slowly, touching her hair. Cassandra had cut her braid off, tossing it into the fire without a second thought. It felt so strange to run her hand over the back of her head where the braid used to be and feel nothing.

She wondered if Giovanni, Pierre, and Marie had made it back to the Court. She'd never be able to forgive herself if they were caught or hurt. She was still stunned that the guard had struck Pierre. She kept seeing him in her mind's eye, blood running from his mouth, onto his hands.

She heard a loud thud now and held her breath. Someone was in the caravan. She listened and heard the thud of heavy boots. She squeezed her eyes shut, silently praying that no one would find her. She heard clattering now, someone knocking over pots and pans. She heard voices too, though she couldn't make out what anyone was saying.

Finally the noise stopped. It felt as though an eternity had passed, and Katarina desperately wanted to climb out of the trunk now. She forced herself to lie still and wait. Clopin or Cassandra would come and let her out of the trunk once it was safe. She waited, listening, wondering what had happened to Giovanni, Pierre, and Marie. She hoped they were safe. She hoped and prayed that nothing had happened to them, that they'd made their way back safely and that they were here in the Court, hiding just as she was.

~xXx~

She wondered how Clopin could stand so calmly and watch as Frollo's guards searched their caravan. Minutes before, he'd thrust Giovanni, Pierre, and Marie into the narrow space beneath the floorboards of Rosalie's shack, but now he was the very definition of calm.

Her own heart was racing. She sat beside Rosalie, helping her cook and forcing herself not to look at the men who were searching their home. Rosalie was still shaking, though she'd stopped crying. She'd nearly fainted when Katarina had burst into the Court, breathless and sobbing; the Judge had seen her and recognized her. This threw the plans into chaos now; they would have to hide her until they could leave Paris, which would be impossible. Frollo would triple the guards at the crossroads, and would make sure they couldn't be bribed either.

Frollo stood by the caravan, glaring at it angrily, his arms crossed. His anger was terrifying. He had begun to pace back and forth, his eyes never leaving the caravan. Two of the guards had gone into the caravan while four more stood outside, pacing and looking around as though they expected to see Katarina simply standing there.

"You there." Cassandra looked up. Frollo was approaching her now. She rose, handing Jacques-Clopin to Rosalie. Rosalie took him, swaying him in her arms and shushing him. "Don't I know you?"

Cassandra shrugged. "I don't believe so, your honor," she said.

He stared at her. His eyes seemed to burn into hers, and she had to force herself not to start shaking. "I thought I'd seen you somewhere before," he said finally. Cassandra found herself suddenly wanting to strike him, to hurl him to the ground and kick him. _Do what you like with her, then cut her throat_. He had watched, smirking, as his guards had ripped her blouse open, their hands grabbing at her. He had felt nothing but smug satisfaction; she had felt rough hands touching her where no one had ever touched her before.

"There's no sign of her, your honor," called one of the guards as he emerged from the caravan. "Nor the others."

Frollo turned. "All right," he said, exasperated now as he approached his guards. "I want the city searched. Post more guards at the crossroads. No one will sleep until she is found, is that clear?"

The men agreed, saluting him before they left the Court the way they'd come in. Frollo watched them go, then turned to Clopin. "If you are hiding her, I suggest you relinquish her right now," he said, "I will not be so forgiving if I return and find her here."

"I've already told you," said Clopin, his voice clipped and calm. "I haven't seen your daughter since the Festival."

Frollo left, glaring darkly at Clopin before turning and storming out of the Court. Clopin watched him go, then looked at Cassandra. She realized now that she was shaking and let him come to her, putting his arms around her. She closed his eyes, burying her face in his shoulder.

~xXx~

"Why did you do it?"

"Why did I do what?"

Giovanni shifted. The space beneath the floorboards was cramped to say the least. He was pressed between a rock and Marie, and he lifted his head to see past her. He couldn't make out Pierre's features in the dark.

"You tried to stop them, the guards. They could've killed you."

"My mother told me what happened," he said finally. "What Frollo did to Katarina's mother."

"What?"

"He forced her to marry him," whispered Pierre. "He found the Court of Miracles and rounded everybody up and brought them to the Palace of Justice. He had the guards bring a girl up to the room where he was with Katarina's mother, then he told them…he told the guards they could rape her if they wanted to. So they started to, but Katarina's mother begged them not to and…the only way they would stop was if she married Frollo, so she did."

Giovanni shifted again, struggling to take it all in. His aunt and uncle had always told him that the guards were corrupt, that they couldn't be trusted. He'd always known that they didn't care about the Gypsies, that they treated them as inferior beings. He'd also always known that Frollo was the most corrupt of them all, using his power to get what he wanted. He'd never have thought anyone could be so cruel, though.

"It…it was your aunt…"

"What?"

"The girl they brought in, the one the guards tried to rape," whispered Pierre. "Mother says they didn't succeed, that they just tore her clothes – "

"It's a lie," he hissed. Pierre fell silent. Giovanni swallowed, his thoughts drifting to his aunt now. "Don't ever say that about her again."

"I'm sorry."

Giovanni shut his eyes. The rock behind him was jutting painfully into his back. He shifted again, trying to get away from it. He could feel Marie move now, nuzzling closer to her brother. He felt a newfound hatred for the Judge rising up within him. He could see his aunt in his mind's eye now; his earliest memory of her was shortly before Theresa was born. He would sit beside her and rest his hands on her swollen belly, laughing in delight as the baby within kicked. He would lean in and whisper stories to the baby, his aunt stroking his hair and occasionally chuckling at his story.

His aunt and uncle were practically his parents. He had no memory of his real parents; his uncle had once told him that his mother had killed herself after his father died. Cassandra was the only mother he'd ever known, and he now vowed to kill the Judge who'd let others hurt her. He'd find the other men and kill them too, but not before the Judge.


	8. Still 1496, Part IV

STILL 1496…

"Where is she?"

He struck her again, bringing his hand crashing down on her face. She fell back, too stunned to acknowledge the pain she was in. His anger was frightening, intense, and she knew that nothing could dissolve it.

"What – what are you talking about?"

"Katarina!" He stared at her, panting. Her stomach knotted uncomfortably, and she tried to smile, coming towards him with her arms open.

"She's in her room, Claude," she said, embracing him, smiling at him even though it made her feel nauseous. "She isn't feeling well – she's lying down – "

He shoved her, sending her tumbling back. She knocked into the end table, sending it crashing to the ground. The table splintered and her sewing basket, which was perched on top of it, split open, spools of thread rolling across the floor. She struggled to regain her footing. "Don't you dare lie to me, Esmerelda," he shouted, coming at her. "Don't you dare!"

"Claude – "

He grabbed her by the hair, jerking her up. She cried out, trying to twist away from him. He pulled her close to him, his steely blue eyes glaring into hers. "I saw her today," he hissed, "she was out in the marketplace with three Gypsy children – "

"That – that's impossible, Claude, she's up in her room – " It was pointless to lie, pointless and futile, but she continued to do so anyway.

"She was dressed as a boy!"

He had seen her then. He had seen her and recognized her. Esmerelda glanced at the door, half expecting Katarina to burst into the room, red-faced and breathless. Hopefully she wouldn't. Hopefully she'd go to the Court of Miracles and hide there. Hopefully Clopin would know what to do, he'd be able to shelter her. Esmerelda swallowed, staring into Frollo's eyes and blinking back tears.

"I don't know where she is," she whispered.

"But you were helping her sneak out every day, weren't you? You let her out even though you knew that I forbade it! You went against me!" he struck her, slapping her hard across the face. She cried out in pain, trying to jerk away from him. "Do you know what she'll become out there? What she'll stoop to? She'll become a thief! A harlot! She'll bring shame and disgrace to this household! How dare you allow her to do this?"

He paused, breathless, staring at her. He let go of her hair, and she stepped back, away from him, rubbing her scalp. He surveyed the rest of the room now, the broken table and overturned sewing basket. He stepped forward, pushing past her to bend and retrieve something from the floor. Esmerelda felt her heart sink. He had seen the sampler that she was making for Katarina, the one that bore her true name. Katarina Phoebus.

He held it up now, shaking with rage. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, whirling around to face her.

"She – she isn't your daughter," said Esmerelda, feeling vehemence and hate rise up in her voice. She did nothing to curb it, stepping forward to meet him, her hands clenched into fists. "She is Phoebus's daughter, not yours."

"Harlot!" he moved to strike her, but she raised her hands, shielding herself from the blow. "How dare you betray me like this?" He pushed her hard, knocking her to the floor. Pain shot through her as she looked up at him, struggling to get to her feet.

"I never wanted you!" she screamed, tears streaming down her face, "I never wanted you, and I never loved you! You took me by force – you raped me!"

He lunged at her, landing on top of her. She clawed at him, raking her nails across his cheek, leaving three bloody lines. He struck her again and again, his hands fists now. "You chose me," he said, grabbing her wrists and jerking her to her feet. "You chose me freely – "

"You forced me!"

"I should have exterminated them when I had the chance," he said, dragging her through the hallway, towards the cellar door.

"You're a monster!" she screamed, jerking and thrashing as he opened the door and began to drag her down the stairs. "You're a monster!"

"I will burn them all for this, Esmerelda," he said, thrusting her into the tiny, unused wine cellar. Frollo thought wine a vice; therefore it was forbidden in his house. The wine cellar had gone unused and unopened for as long as Esmerelda could remember. Now he shoved her into the small dark room, slamming the door behind her. She tumbled forward, regaining her footing and spinning around. She pounded on the door, screaming, calling him every foul name she could think of. She slammed her shoulder against the door even after she heard him throw the bolt across and continued to scream at him even after she heard him leave.

~xXx~

The air was full of fear and chaos and excitement. He could feel it, and it frightened him. He lay awake, listening to his aunt and uncle whispering in their bunk. He had given up trying to hear what they were saying over an hour ago. It was both comforting and disturbing to hear them; he could feel the anxiety in his uncle's voice and the fear in his aunt's.

Thoughts spun through Giovanni's head. He struggled not to think, to let his mind go blank, but his thoughts continually replayed the events of the day. He and Katarina should have avoided the marketplace. They shouldn't have left the puppet theatre. Everyone was in danger because of what he and Katarina had done. It made him feel foolish and stupid. It was his job to protect her, to watch over her and make sure she remained hidden. He had ultimately failed.

He rolled over, thinking now about Katarina. She was sleeping beneath the floorboards of Rosalie's shack, and he felt sorry for her now. The space beneath the floorboards was awful and cramped, and smelled musty and foul. Katarina would hate it. He wondered if she was asleep or if she was lying awake like him, thinking endlessly about what had happened with the guards and wondering if it could have been prevented.

~xXx~

"You're not asleep either?"

"No."

Clopin rolled onto his back and looked at her. She sighed, snuggling close to him, and he put his arm around her. "What do we do now?" she whispered.

"We wait," he replied. "We'll keep the children hidden until we can convince Frollo that we don't have Katarina. Then we leave."

He felt her nodding, her cheek moving against his chest. "We never talk about it," she said, her voice so soft and thin he barely heard her.

"I was waiting for you," he said. "To be ready, I mean."

She was quiet for a long time. "I never think about it," she said finally. "It's like a nightmare that's ended. The Judge recognized me and…God, I hate him so much…"

"As do I."

"What was it like? Killing them, I mean."

Part of him didn't want her to know about it. Killing the men who'd attacked her was something he had enjoyed far too much. It had been a dark, secretive thrill to take his knife and plunge it into them, listening to them beg and whimper and apologize over and over again. He didn't want her to see that dark part of him. She'd be horrified to know that he'd laughed as the last man lay dying on the floor.

"It was satisfying," he said.

"I was content knowing that they were dead, that they couldn't hurt me again," she said. "But the Judge…he was going to let them hurt me. He watched them, and he was smiling…" she made a thin gasping sound, as though she was choking back tears. "He was smiling, and they…"

He held her tighter, rolling onto his side to face her. He ran his fingers through her hair, savoring its softness. "He will never hurt you," he whispered, kissing her forehead, "and he will never let anyone else hurt you." He kissed her again, trailing his fingers along her face. "I'll kill him. I swear to you, I'll kill him if he even comes near you."

She kissed him now, hungrily; it reminded him of the night he'd kissed her for the first time. The way she'd slid so eagerly into his arms, her hands running through his hair. He remembered pulling her onto his lap, how soft her skin was; it was like he couldn't stop kissing her. The way she had moaned his name had sent chills throughout his spine, and he'd wanted to make love to her then and there. His thoughts spiraled now to their wedding night, watching her slip out of the prim white wedding dress and into his arms. He remembered every touch, every kiss, and just lying beside her now thrilled him.

"I love you," he whispered, kissing her neck. She grabbed his hand now, placing it on her breast. "I love you so much."

~xXx~

The space beneath the floorboards was cold and uncomfortable, but she found that she was too tired to care. The darkness enveloping her seemed endless; her eyes refused to adjust to it, it seemed. She couldn't care less. She curled herself tighter into a ball, grateful for the blankets that Rosalie had given her.

She'd never been so happy to see Giovanni, Pierre, and Marie earlier. She'd very nearly cried when they emerged from the same space where she now lay, completely unharmed, though still out of breath. She didn't even care that Giovanni had laughed at her new haircut. Cassandra felt that if she would be traveling as a boy, she should look more the part. Katarina didn't mind. Hair would grow back, and once they left Paris, she'd have plenty of time to let it.

She forced herself to be confident that they would successfully leave Paris. It was all she could do to keep from going insane.

~xXx~

"Where are you going at this time of night, soldier?"

"P-Paris." Phoebus stared at the group sitting by the campfire. How could they have known he was a soldier? He wasn't wearing his uniform anymore, and he'd sold his last medal in Lyon. He'd always hoped to give it to a son someday, but that hope had been cruelly dashed the night he'd been forced to leave Paris.

"Well, come dine with us, soldier!" the man called, his voice jolly and robust. "There's plenty to go around." He stared at Phoebus, beckoning. "Come on now, we won't bite."

"I…thank you," said Phoebus, limping over and settling down beside the man. He squinted at the group, struggling to see everyone through the dimming flames.

"Come on, Heracles! Where's that firewood?"

"Hold on, hold on! I'm coming!" An enormous, muscular man emerged from the woods, carrying a large bundle of sticks on his shoulder. He hefted it into the fire, making the flames triple in size, then sat down alongside Phoebus. "When did you join us?" he asked.

"He's a weary traveler, just like the rest of us," said the man who'd beckoned Phoebus initially. Phoebus looked around at the faces of the other people, struggling to conceal his shock and horror. The women sitting directly across from him seemed to be fused together at the waist. They were sitting almost back-to-back, their blonde curls shining in the firelight. There was a woman next to them with no legs, and a dwarf.

"Here," the man beside him – Heracles – handed him a tin plate of stew. "What's your story, traveler?"

"I…I'm trying to get to Paris," he said, taking the plate.

"So are we! I am Hans and this is my circus. My sister, Frieda – " The woman with no legs waved at him, smiling. "Brunhilde and Conradine, our Siamese twins. Dierk – " the dwarf waved now. "And Heracles, the strong man."

"How did you know I was a soldier?"

"Only a soldier can stand so straight on only one leg, my friend," said Hans chuckling. "So, what waits in Paris for you?"

Phoebus paused, thinking hard about how he wanted to answer the question. He took another bite of the stew, barely even tasting it he was so hungry. "A woman," he said finally.

"Ah! A faithful sweetheart! How romantic!" Frieda spoke now, waddling around the campfire towards him, walking on her hands. Hans plucked her up, settling her on his knee.

"Frieda, I keep telling you to use the cart I made you," he said, his tone close to scolding.

"Ah, the cart's for cripples!" said Frieda, waving him away. "Now, soldier, tell us about your sweetheart."

Phoebus sighed. Tears were suddenly starting to fill his eyes, and he couldn't blink them back fast enough. He thought of Esmerelda – his Esmerelda – waiting at the window, longing for him. "She…she was forced to marry another man," he said at last, unable to hold his tears back. "A judge. He ordered me executed, but a friend of mine helped me escape by having me re-enlist…" the plate full of stew fell to the ground, and he buried his face in his hands, sobbing now. "I've been trying to get back to her, to rescue her…"

"There, there, now." He felt hands patting his shoulders reassuringly now. He wasn't sure who was talking to him or who was touching him, but the kindness in the air felt refreshing. It made him cry even more. It had been so long since anyone had been even remotely kind to him.

"We'll bring you back to Paris, to your sweetheart," said Frieda, her rough, calloused hand squeezing his now. "We could always use another roustabout on the road. You can pitch a tent, can't you, soldier?"

"Yes, yes I can."

"Then it's settled," said Hans. "Passage to Paris in exchange for some chores and odd jobs here and there – "

"And an honest wage," said Frieda.

"Frieda – "

"He'll need money to win back his sweetheart!"

"Please, please, you needn't pay me. I just need to get to Paris…"

"You get an honest wage whether you want it or not, soldier," said Frieda. "That's the way we do things in this circus. Everyone gets an honest wage."

~xXx~

Her throat was raw from screaming and her hands numb from pounding on the door. She lay slumped against it, too exhausted to move. The darkness was thick and powerful, and she had grown past fearing it. She hated it now. She hated the darkness of the cellar, the darkness of the house, and the darkness of her life. She barely noticed the door open at first, but when she began to feel it pushing against her, Esmerelda sprang back and rose, preparing to throw Frollo to the floor and force her way past him.

"Are you sure this is wise, brother? After all, she's your wife!"

"She's betrayed me, Jehan, and needs to be taught a lesson."

The door creaked open at last, and she was momentarily blinded by the light from the lantern that Claude Frollo was holding. His younger brother, Jehan, was beside him, holding a length of coiled rope. She leapt at them, clawing and scratching. Jehan was much younger than Claude, and stronger too. He stepped forward, catching her about the waist and lifted her up off the ground. She screamed and thrashed with newfound strength.

"Easy now, Esmerelda," said Jehan, struggling to hold her. "This is for the best, really – "

"You monster!"

Claude approached her now, putting the candle down and taking the rope from Jehan. "You've brought this upon yourself, Esmerelda," he said, binding her hands behind her back. Jehan shifted her in his arms, his hands brushing against her breasts. She glared at him. She hated Jehan almost as much as she hated his brother; she had never liked the way he'd stared at her, his eyes wandering across her body. It was as though he could see through her clothes. She had mentioned this to Claude once, but he had blamed her for it, accusing her of bewitching Jehan. No matter how many shawls she wrapped herself with, no matter how much she covered herself, Jehan stared at her.

He was touching her now, his hand squeezing her thigh as Claude bound her legs together. She screamed, desperately hoping that someone would hear her and come to her rescue. She knew better; even if someone did hear her, no one would go against Judge Claude Frollo. He could tell the world what he was doing to her and no one would defend her.

"Now, tell me where Katarina is."

Jehan put her down on the cold hard floor and went to stand by his brother, picking up the candle. She blinked against the harshness of the light and shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I didn't know she would run away."

Claude moved forward, his hand raised as if to strike her. Esmerelda braced herself for the pain. Jehan grabbed his hand, pulling him back. "No Claude," he said, "I have a better idea." Claude stopped, turning to his brother. "Come, I'll tell you upstairs."

He winked at her as he put his arm around his brother's shoulder and led him from the room. They closed the door, bolting it shut and leaving her alone in the darkness.


	9. Still 1496, Part V

STILL 1496…

Sitting in the Court, doing nothing but wait, was agonizingly boring. Pierre would not stop pacing, and his constant movement had become irritating. Giovanni wanted to grab him and force him to sit down, but knew that he risked starting a fistfight if he did. Pierre was not one who enjoyed any sort of confinement. However boring it was to sit and wait, it was probably ten times worse for Pierre.

Marie watched her brother, her brown eyes darting two and fro. If she was anywhere near as anxious as he was, she did an amazing job hiding it. She sat beside Katarina, silently holding one of her dolls. She would occasionally begin to braid the doll's hair, stroking the coarse black yarn lovingly and making little cooing sounds. As far as Giovanni knew, Marie couldn't talk; she could laugh and scream and make other noises, though these all seemed to be done without her realizing what she was doing.

Katarina hadn't spoken much since yesterday. She watched Pierre, wringing her hands nervously. It seemed to Giovanni that she was trying not to cry. Her face and clothes were streaked with dirt from sleeping in the space between the floorboards. He'd never seen her so dirty before. It was strange to see her like this, sitting in boy's clothes, her face and hands filthy. She looked just like a boy. It made him feel strange, and he found that he couldn't look at her.

She had hugged him the day before. She'd screamed his name and thrown her arms around his neck. "Oh, thank God you're safe! I was so afraid they'd caught you!" Of course, she had hugged Pierre and Marie too. Giovanni could still feel her pressed tight against him. Her body was hard and flat and warm, almost hot. It was like being hugged by a fire. He tried to push the memory away, but it lingered, and he found himself imagining that he'd kissed her. He knew he hadn't. She'd hugged him, then immediately turned and hugged Pierre and Marie with the same fiery intensity. Still, he thought about kissing her, pressing his lips against hers, wondering what it would be like.

~xXx~

It felt as though she'd been locked in the cellar for years. She couldn't remember if she'd been able to sleep or not, but when the door opened, it felt like she'd woken from a dream. She lifted her head. Claude and Jehan were in the doorway. They entered the room silently, closing the door behind them. Claude sat down beside her. He was holding a bowl full of something that smelled delicious. She hadn't realized just how hungry she was until she caught the rich meaty scent.

"We are going to find Katarina, my dear," he said, spooning the soup into her mouth. It burned her tongue, but she swallowed it anyway, opening her mouth for more. "She will return to me willingly."

She stared at him, swallowing another mouthful of soup. She shook her head. "She won't come back, Claude."

Claude smiled at her. It was frightening to see him so calm. "Jehan and I are going to a funeral later," he said. "I expect we'll see her shortly thereafter. After all, what child wouldn't come to lay flowers on her mother's grave?"

She stared at him, unable to comprehend what he was saying. He laughed. It shocked her to hear him laugh; his voice was full of malice and hate. "What have you done?"

"Nothing, my dear, nothing at all." He rose now, taking the empty bowl with him. "I've told everyone that you passed away last night, and today we are holding the funeral. Once Katarina finds out…"

"Come, brother, or we'll be late."

"You're a monster!" she cried, squirming. She'd been struggling with all her might, but the ropes still held her. She wanted to be free, to lunge at him and dash his brains against the cold stone floor. All she could do was hurl insults at him. She felt impotent, lying there helpless while he schemed and manipulated the city. The door slammed shut, and she felt the tears come. She did nothing to stop them.

~xXx~

"We have to tell her!"

"Please, Cassandra, keep your voice down."

She put her hands on her hips and stared at him. He still could not believe what he'd just seen. Watching Esmerelda's funeral procession had been like a dream. The grim-faced pallbearers carrying the coffin, the priests, the Judge dabbing his eyes with a silk handkerchief. The whole thing had been surreal and strange, and he absolutely refused to believe that Esmerelda was dead. He didn't want to. He had not attended the funeral, though not for lack of trying. Guards posted at the cemetery gates refused to allow anyone of Gypsy descent into the graveyard.

"I know that we have to tell Katarina," he said, whispering now. He glanced back over his shoulder. Katarina, Giovanni, Pierre, and Marie were sitting in a huddled group. They had been confined to the Court of Miracles for the entire day, and had been forced to spend most of it inside of Rosalie's shack. Even from a distance he could tell that they were gloomy and restless.

"It must be done carefully," he said, "I don't want her doing anything rash."

Cassandra nodded. "All right," she said. "I'll go fetch her."

He watched her go. He didn't like delivering bad news; he'd been the one to tell Rosalie that her husband was dead. She'd begun to cry, naturally, and had demanded to see the body. She'd taken hold of the dead man's hands and cried into them, as if her tears could bring him back. He knew that Katarina wouldn't have the same reaction; she was just a child and would probably scream.

"Yes, Clopin?"

"Katarina…" he put a hand on her shoulder, "it's about your mother." She merely stared at him, her emerald eyes wide. She had Esmerelda's eyes, and they broke his heart. "She passed away last night." Katarina blinked, stunned. "Child, I'm so sorry…"

"She…she's dead?" Tears were beginning to stream down her face. He hugged her, pulling her in close to him. She pressed her face to his shoulder, sobbing loudly. Her fingers dug into his arms painfully. He could see Giovanni, Pierre, and Marie watching, standing up and approaching them now. Cassandra went to them, stopping them. She was probably explaining what had just happened. Pierre grabbed his sister's hand, almost instinctively.

~xXx~

He had dreamed of Esmerelda last night, and now he clung to the dream the way a drowning man clings to wreckage from his ship. Esmerelda, his Esmerelda, waiting for him at the window, ready and eager to leap into his arms. He savored the dream, replaying it over and over in his mind; in the dream she was wearing white and dancing. She twirled and swayed, her tender hands holding a tambourine. She smiled and laughed and blew kisses at him.

He knew that the dream was just distracting him. He was struggling with the tent, and he hoped the other roustabouts hadn't noticed. He couldn't remember their names; they were burly men, jovial, always laughing as they pulled ropes and hefted canvases.

"What's on your mind, soldier?" Heracles was the one to break him from his reverie. "Thinking about your sweetheart?" He chuckled. "I had one once, you know."

"What was her name?"

"Gratiana," he said. "I met her in Reims, actually."

"What happened to her?"

"Oh, she couldn't marry a roustabout," he said. "She wanted a proper home. She married another man."

"That must've been terrible."

"It was at the time. But in the end, she got herself a proper home and a husband, and I've been all over Europe. I've had many girls, but I doubt I've ever loved them as much as I loved Gratiana."

"How you talk Heracles!" Phoebus looked down and saw Frieda waddling over to them. She moved remarkably fast for a woman with no legs, propelling herself along on her hands. She looked up at Heracles, grinning wryly. "You tell tales about the women you've had as though you're a Greek god!"

"Well," he said, stooping and lifting her. He placed her on his shoulder with ease, as though she weighed nothing. "I am named for one."

"Heracles was only half a god," said Phoebus. "He was the son of Zeus, and his mother was a mortal woman."

"There, you see that?" Frieda laughed and ruffled Heracles's hair. "You're only half a god, Heracles! Now, put me down, I've work to do."

"Oh, all right." He put her down gently. She waddled away, laughing. "You're smart, you know. You don't often see that in soldiers."

Phoebus smiled. "I know. You should put me in the freak tent – Phoebus, the Educated Soldier!"

Heracles roared with laughter. "Ah, so you're named after a real god then! And what's your sweetheart's name?"

"Esmerelda."

"Ah…a god and an emerald…a good match, I'd say. A very good match."

~xXx~

"I can't remember the last thing she said to me," said Katarina. She sniffled, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. "I just wish I could."

He patted her shoulder. He was almost afraid to touch her. He wondered what she would think of him if he put his arm around her. Would she lean against him? Would she rest her head on his shoulder? Would she start to cry? Would she kiss him? The possibilities seemed too endless to fathom, and they only confused him further. It was best not to put his arm around her. It was best to just sit by her side and be there for her.

"I can't remember my mother at all," he said. "She died when I was four."

She looked at him, her green eyes watery. He had never talked about his own parents with her before. He'd never really talked about them with anyone. Clopin had told him about his mother's death, though he himself couldn't remember it. She had drowned herself in the Seine. Clopin had gone in after her and had managed to pull her out, but he hadn't been able to breathe life back into her.

"She drowned," he said. "She threw herself into the Seine after my father died."

Katarina gasped. "I'm so sorry."

"I don't remember her." Giovanni shrugged. "I've always thought of Cassandra as my mother."

"I didn't get to say goodbye to her," said Katarina. "My mother, I mean. I want to go to her grave."

"We can't leave the Court – "

"You don't have to come," she said defensively, "I can go by myself. I just want to say goodbye to her. That's all."

He sighed. "We'll go after everyone's asleep," he said. She started to protest, but he cut her off. "I will come with you. I think my mother's buried in the same graveyard."

~xXx~

She didn't know where Giovanni had gotten the flowers, but she didn't question him. She merely took the small, battered-looking bouquet from him and followed him through the tunnel and out of the Court of Miracles. They walked in silence, emerging into the moonlight by the cemetery. Katarina was surprised to see two sleepy-looking guards standing at the gate.

"We have to sneak in," whispered Giovanni, motioning for her to follow him. They crept up alongside the graveyard, moving through the shadows until the guards were out of sight. Giovanni climbed over the wrought-iron fence, then paused and waited for her.

She climbed the fence, dropping down beside him. The graveyard was eerie in the moonlight, and she half expected to see ghosts flitting about between the headstones. She looked around, wondering where her mother was buried. She and Giovanni would have to move through the graveyard, reading headstones and looking for freshly dug soil. She felt her heart sink; it would take all night!

"Look." Giovanni was pointing at something. Katarina squinted, following his gaze. She could make out a mound of soil in the distance. It was covered with fresh white roses. That had to be her mother's resting place. She hated thinking of her mother lying motionless in a grave, but she moved towards it nonetheless.

She heard Giovanni following her. She reached the mound, gaping at the endless heap of roses. She knelt, brushing some aside so she could see the headstone. Esmerelda Frollo. The words jutted out in the moonlight. Katarina ran her hand across her mother's name, sighing. Part of her wanted to cry, felt that she should be weeping at her own mother's grave, but she was also relieved. She'd spent most of the day sobbing into Clopin's shoulder, and now her chest hurt and her eyes felt raw and irritated. It was too painful to cry, and besides, she doubted that her mother would want her to.

"Katarina – "

Giovanni grabbed her shoulder and jerked her to her feet. She turned, wanting to strike him for interrupting her, but saw what he was looking at. Figures were approaching them, some bearing torches. Guards. This whole thing was a trap. She fled, weaving in and out of the headstones. She heard Giovanni behind her. She didn't realize that she'd dropped the flowers; all she was aware of was the thundering of armed men chasing them. She pushed on, feeling the tears begin to run down her cheeks.

A trap. This whole thing was a trap. The Judge was using her mother's death to capture her. That vile, horrid monster! She reached the wrought iron fence, so breathless she could barely scramble over it. She made it, tumbling onto the pavement below. She pulled herself up, staring at the bars, waiting for Giovanni. The air was thick with the sound of feet running. He'd been behind her, right behind her. Where was he? Her stomach knotted. Where was he?

~xXx~

"We've caught her, your honor, just as you said we would."

The guards pushed him forward and he tripped over his own feet, falling and landing hard on his hands and knees. The pain was sudden and jarring and he was too stunned to get up. He felt a gnarled hand grab him by the hair and jerk his head back. He cried out, staring up at the Judge's face.

The Judge glared angrily at him, then released his hair. "This isn't my daughter," he said, his voice icy.

"But – but you said that she had fair hair and blue eyes and was dressed in boy's clothes," the guard sputtered, turning to his fellow comrades for affirmation.

The Judge grabbed Giovanni by the shoulders now, pulling him to his feet. He stared hard at him, his piercing blue eyes drilling into him. Giovanni swallowed, trying to stop shaking. The Judge reached out suddenly, his hand moving so fast Giovanni barely saw it; he felt the Judge reach between his legs and squeeze. Giovanni screamed, more shocked than anything else.

"This is a boy," shouted the Judge, releasing him. Giovanni stumbled backwards, hunched over, trying to protect himself. The Judge turned to the guards now. "Katarina has green eyes!" he thundered, "she was with this boy! Now get back out there and find her! I will deal with him myself."

The guards left, nearly running from the room. The Judge turned to him, and Giovanni shuddered, backing away from him. "Where is she?" the Judge demanded, striding over to him and grabbing his arm.

Giovanni shook his head. "I don't know who you're speaking of," he said.

"Don't lie to me, Gypsy!" He started marching, dragging Giovanni along behind him. Giovanni twisted, trying to jerk free. The Judge was strong; he had the appearance of a frail old man. He led Giovanni down a thin, twisting hallway, towards a row of cells. "You will tell me where she is," he said, "I will make you tell me."

He took a ring of keys from his belt and opened one of the cells. He shoved Giovanni inside, pushing him so hard he fell down. He landed on his side this time, crying out as he hit the cold pavement. He heard the door slam and the clunking sound of the key turning in the lock. He lay there, too frightened and in too much pain to move. He'd heard unpleasant stories about the Palace of Justice; how the guards were experts in the art of torture and showed no mercy. He wondered if he should tell the Judge about the trunk with the false bottom or the space beneath the floorboards. Perhaps if he told, the Judge would let him go back to his aunt and uncle.

But if he did tell, what would happen to Katarina? How severely would the Judge punish her? Would he have her beaten? Killed? Would he let the guards rape her, as he'd let them rape his aunt? He lifted his head, pushing himself up off the ground. He looked out through the bars. The hall was lit by dim torches, which only made the cell look more frightening. He couldn't tell the Judge where Katarina was. He didn't even want to think of the horrors that would befall her if he found her. It was his job to keep her hidden, and he was going to, no matter what.


	10. Still 1496, Part VI

STILL 1496…

He had paced every inch of the cell, looking for ways out, and was exhausted. The cell was small, and now it seemed to shrink. He curled into the corner, pressing himself against the wall and drifting into an uneasy sleep. He heard guards pacing the hallway outside the cell, heard them laughing and chattering. Their voices were thick and gruff, full of hate, and it frightened him.

"He's awful pretty for a boy, that one in there. I could think of a few things I'd like to do if he was a girl."

The remark jolted Giovanni from his half-sleep. He heard the other guards laughing. He saw them now, shadowy figures near his cell. There were three of them, all of them tall and well-armed. They talked about him as though he wasn't there, as though he couldn't hear them. It terrified him. He wondered what they would have done to Katarina if they'd caught her, and the thoughts made his stomach clench painfully.

~xXx~

Clopin would not look at her, and this hurt her far more than she could even begin to understand. He'd been pacing frantically since she'd woken him up the night before; now he sat with his back to her, sharpening his dagger. Katarina squirmed, and she felt Pierre grab her hand and squeeze it.

"It'll be all right," he said, "you'll see. It'll be all right."

She desperately wanted to believe him, but could only shake her head. She let go of Pierre's hand and turned to watch as Rosalie hefted the green and purple trunk with the false bottom into her wagon. She rose, her legs shaking, and climbed into the wagon. She opened the trunk and took a deep breath. Rosalie was talking to Clopin in hushed tones now, her hand resting on his shoulder. Katarina watched them, then lifted the false bottom and climbed inside of the trunk.

"Can you breathe in there?" asked Pierre, his face appearing at the top of the trunk.

"Yes."

"All right," he said. "I'll let you out once we're a few miles away from Paris."

She nodded, forcing a smile as he secured the false bottom. She was plunged into darkness, and she closed her eyes. She could hear Pierre piling other objects into the trunk; blankets and clothes and such, most likely. She heard the lid snap shut, then was enveloped in silence.

~xXx~

She watched Rosalie packing up her wagon. She and Clopin had decided that she would leave, taking Pierre, Marie, and Katarina with her. Pierre and Marie were lying in the bottom of the wagon now, covered with a blanket. Rosalie hitched up the mule, rubbing its nose.

"I'll see you in Lyon," she said.

Cassandra shook her head, looking back at her husband. "We won't be going without Giovanni," she said.

"You'll get him back," said Rosalie, "and when you do, I'll see you in Lyon."

Cassandra sighed. It was too difficult to think about Giovanni, knowing that he was locked in the Palace of Justice. Horrible as it was, it was much easier to imagine him dead; if he was dead, he would be free from pain. It was much worse to sit and wonder if he was being tortured. The Palace of Justice was filled with cruel men who held no mercy in their hearts, and she couldn't bear the thought of her nephew being among them.

She watched as Rosalie left, then returned to Clopin's side. He was bent over his knife, sharpening it. "I have to do something," he said, his voice thin and frantic. "I have to go and rescue him. I have to – " the knife slipped in his hand, slicing his palm. He cursed. The knife clattered to the ground. She took his hand and began wrapping it in her headscarf.

"We need a plan," she said, watching as the blood spread across the fabric. "We need to stop and think – "

"I can't waste any more time!"

She kissed his forehead, pulling him close to her. He leaned on her shoulder, panting, on the verge of tears. "I'm going to go and get something for you to eat," she said, rubbing his back. "I'll be back very shortly. You'll need your strength." He nodded. "Go lie down for a bit."

"He's like a son to me," he whispered. "I can't let them hurt him…"

"I love him too," she said. "No one will hurt him. We're going to find a way to get into the Palace of Justice and get him."

~xXx~

"Where is Claude?"

Jehan entered the room. He set the lantern down by the doorway and approached her. He sat down beside her. "He's in court today," he said. He was holding a large bowl of porridge. He stirred it, eyeing her. "We didn't apprehend Katarina last night," he said. "We did, however, catch one of her friends. Hopefully the boy will tell us where she is."

Esmerelda swallowed. She struggled to mask her relief; Katarina was still somewhere out there, safe and unharmed. She shuddered to think of what Claude would do to her. Claude was still furious with the both of them. Katarina was, after all, not his real daughter. She wondered if he wanted to her to share her father's fate, and the thought made her shudder. Jehan offered her a spoonful of porridge, and she ate slowly.

"Esmerelda," he said, "if you know where Katarina is, it would make Claude most happy. He'd be willing to let you out of this dreadful room – "

"I don't know where she is, Jehan," she said. "I've already told you."

~xXx~

"No one is to pass this way. Judge's orders."

Rosalie forced a smile. "Please, sir, I must."

"Oh, and why?" There were two of them, tall youngish men, practically still boys. They were young and stupid enough to follow the Judge's orders without question. They would be easy to get past.

"It's my cousin," she said matter-of-factly, "she lives on a farm just a few miles up the road. She's expecting her first baby, and I'm to help her deliver it."

"Ah, so you're a midwife then?"

"That I am."

The taller of the two shook his head anyway. "I am sorry," he said, "but you're not to pass."

"But please, sir – "

"Oh come now, perhaps we can escort her to her cousin's farm – "

"I'm sorry. We can't let you pass."

She shifted, moving her skirt aside to reveal the three jugs of wine she'd packed. She had hoped that it wouldn't come to this, but she was prepared anyway. She would get past these men one way or another. They saw the wine jugs, their eyes wide with surprise. "You say you're a midwife?" the taller one reached up and grabbed one of the wine jugs as though he owned it. Rosalie watched as he examined it.

"That was to be for the baby's christening," she said as he uncorked it and took a swallow.

"It's quite good."

She handed one of the other wine jugs to the second guard. She watched them as they drank. They laughed and chattered and finished the wine. They took the third jug without asking her, as though she didn't matter. She watched as they grew dizzy, swaying and unable to stand upright. They fell to the ground; they had never realized that the wine had been poisoned. She climbed down from the wagon.

The soldiers did not have much money in their pockets, but she took it anyway. She dragged the bodies off the road and into the bushes. They were unnaturally heavy, weighed down with iron armor. She left their swords, but they carried smaller daggers, and she took those. She left the empty wine jugs beside them; they would be of no use to her. The poison probably still lingered within them. It would be far too dangerous to continue to use them.

She climbed back up into the wagon and urged the mule on. It went forward calmly, without hesitating. She glanced at the thick gray blanket in the bottom of the wagon. Pierre and Marie lay beneath it. She hoped that they were sleeping, and was relieved that they had not seen what she'd done. She had killed before, once long ago, and it was not a particularly pleasant experience. She was glad, though, that her children knew nothing of it.

~xXx~

He hadn't realized how hungry he was until Cassandra returned with a bag full of bread, cheese, and some fruit. He ate ravenously, aware that she was watching him worriedly. "We don't have enough people to storm the Palace of Justice," he said, "and that would be too risky besides."

"I know." She took his hand now and began to undo the scarf she'd wrapped around his cut. The cut was no longer bleeding, but looked red and raw. She took a clean strip of fabric and began to wrap the wound.

"I'm going to see the Judge," he said. "That's all I can think to do. Maybe I can plead with him…"

"I'll go with you," she said.

"No. No, please stay here."

"But – "

He shook his head and stood up. "I'm going to the Palace of Justice. If I can't see him there, I'll wait at his home."

She looked up at him, then rose. She embraced him. "Be safe," she said, "please be safe."


	11. Still 1496, Part VII

STILL 1496…

The sun had set by the time the Judge finally arrived. Clopin had waited, nervous and twitching, in the sitting room, seated across from the Judge's younger brother. Jehan Frollo stared at him in silence, refusing to answer any of his questions.

"My brother will speak to you when he returns," he said. "I really have nothing to say to you at all."

"But, sir, perhaps you know something of my nephew – "

"Bring him up one more time and I'll throw you out of here myself, is that clear?"

He heard the front door open and close, and Claude Frollo entered the room. Clopin rose to meet him, his knees creaking. "What is he doing here?"

"The boy you arrested last night is his nephew," said Jehan.

The Judge stared at him. "And you've come to beg for his release?"

Clopin nodded. "Yes, sir." He hated the way the Judge had put it, but he was completely right. All he could do for Giovanni was beg the Judge to release him.

"The boy's parents couldn't make it?"

"They're dead, sir."

"It's a shame they didn't live to see what he's become," said the Judge vehemently. "A liar, a thief, and a vandal."

"He's only a boy, your honor. He only wanted to pay his respects to your deceased wife, that's all – "

"And why should he want to do that? Did he know her?"

"No, your honor. Esmerelda has become something of a legend among my people."

The Judge snorted. "Where is my daughter?"

"I don't know."

"Then I will not release your nephew."

"Please, sir, he's a child!"

"As is my daughter," said the Judge, "and, like your nephew, she was taken from me." The Judge was staring at him now, his blue eyes blazing. "Where is Katarina?"

"She's left Paris." It shamed him to betray Esmerelda like this. He hated himself for betraying her and Katarina. It was becoming clear to him that he would have to sacrifice Katarina in order to save Giovanni's life, though. He would have to swallow the shame and deliver her to the Judge. He hoped that the Judge would be merciful.

"Where did she go?"

Clopin sighed. He didn't want to betray Rosalie as well, but Katarina was with her, traveling to Lyon. "She left early this morning," he said. "A friend of mine is taking her to Lyon."

The Judge nodded, folding his arms across his chest. "Bring her back to me in three days' time," he said. "If she isn't here – in this house – by sunset on the third day, I will have your nephew executed the following day at dawn."

Clopin nodded, unable to speak for fear of crying. He couldn't possibly win. He would have to sacrifice one child for the other; at least if he brought Katarina back to the Judge, both of them would live. The Judge led him from the house, and he returned to the Court numbly.

~xXx~

She was relieved to be out of the trunk. The road was surrounded by thick forests on either side, and the air was cold and clean. Pierre and Marie were as fascinated with the forests as she was; they'd spent their entire lives within a city made of stone and steel. They had never been outside its walls, and the forest amazed them. Rosalie seemed indifferent to it, urging the mule on, trying to put as much distance between them and Paris as possible.

She watched the forest, forcing herself to concentrate on the trees and not to think of what she had left behind in Paris. She closed her eyes, and began to silently pray for Giovanni. She had stopped praying altogether when the Judge had told her that he would send her to a nunnery; it had been a form of rebellion to go to sleep without saying her prayers at night. Now she prayed, tears welling up beneath her eyelids.

Night fell swiftly on the road, and Rosalie stopped the mule. Pierre and Katarina built a fire, collecting branches from the side of the road. She helped Rosalie cook and ate the meal without really tasting it.

"You three should sleep," said Rosalie. "We'll be leaving at dawn tomorrow."

She slept in the wagon beside Marie, pressed against her for warmth. It was far colder out here than it had been in the space beneath the floorboards at Rosalie's old shack. She wondered now if Rosalie missed her old home. She would miss Paris; it was such a lively place. She hoped that Lyon held as much vibrancy and warmth as Paris once had.

~xXx~

"I only have three days. If I leave now, I can catch up with them."

"Clopin…" she sighed, grabbing his arm. He was packing a knapsack, moving quickly and almost feverishly. His hands shook; he had dropped his knife again, though hadn't cut himself with it this time. "Please, wait until morning."

"I have to go now – "

"It's pitch-black out there! You won't be able to see!" She pulled him to her, staring up at him. Jacques-Clopin began to cry, but she ignored him. She could deal with the baby's fussing later. "Go tomorrow," she said.

"Cassandra, I've only got three days!"  
"And Rosalie can't have gone far, you know that. If you go tonight, you risk getting lost or hurt. What will happen to Giovanni if something happens to you?"

He stared at her now, and it was as though all the energy had suddenly been sucked out of him. He sat down, burying his face in his hands. She went back to the caravan to retrieve Jacques-Clopin. She brought him over to her husband, sitting down beside him while she rocked the baby in her arms. Clopin watched her as she lifted her blouse and began to nurse the baby.

She stared down at the baby now. He looked up at her with large dark eyes, his small hand resting against her breast as he nursed. She felt Clopin put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him. She did not like the idea of trading Katarina for Giovanni. It felt like they were betraying not just Esmerelda, but everyone else as well. The knowledge that this was a battle that the Judge would ultimately win was both sad and humiliating. To know that it was all for nothing was unbearable, but to know that Giovanni would die otherwise was worse. She was greatly comforted by the fact that he was still alive, that he could be saved.

~xXx~

He would have reached Lyon days ago if he'd stuck to the main road instead of following the river through the woods, but he didn't know this, and he much preferred the forest to the main road. The forest was quiet and peaceful. He had gotten the hang of fishing fairly quickly. Hunting was a different matter altogether, but he was slowly figuring it out. Trapping the rabbits was not particularly difficult. It took patience and persistence, both of which he had plenty of. Killing them was a different matter; he couldn't bear the way they stared at him, their eyes wide, knowing that they were about to die. It unnerved him, but he was too hungry to really be bothered by it.

He hadn't seen another person along the river, and he was starting to enjoy the solitude. All his life he'd hated the solitude of the bell tower, the loneliness. Knowing that Paris was teeming with people and that he couldn't let them be a part of his life had gnawed at him incessantly. The feeling of loneliness was gone now. The forest was green and thick, largely untouched by humans. It was nice.

He lay on his back now, staring up at the night sky. The stars were so bright and clear. They looked different somehow, and this bothered him. The stars were eternal, they never changed or moved, but now it felt as though this night sky was different from the one above Paris. It was colder, crisper, easier to see; it was calm and placid and uncaring. He found that he preferred this night sky to Paris's.

~xXx~

"Don't look so gloomy, soldier! Everybody's happy at the circus!"

Frieda scampered past him. He couldn't remember the name of the town they'd stopped at; it was a small farming village somewhere off the main road and north of Lyon. They would be there for a few days, and this bothered him; he desperately wanted to get to Paris, to kill that licentious Judge and liberate his Esmerelda. Ah, Esmerelda. Phoebus found himself smiling as he watched Frieda rush past, her thin, muscular arms propelling her across the ground with lightning speed.

He stepped back, admiring his work. He and the other roustabouts had pitched the main tent that day; they worked by torchlight to set up the Tent of Freaks, where Frieda, the twins, Dierk, and a handful of others would be put on display. He wondered how Frieda could stand it. Did people point and laugh at her because she had no legs? How did she deal with the constant humiliation? He watched her now. She was talking with Brunhilde and Conradine. They giggled coquettishly behind their hands, nodding along with her.

Brunhilde and Conradine were stunningly beautiful, aside from the fact that they were attached to each other at the waist. They would have had hundreds of suitors if they weren't attached. They both had blonde hair that framed their faces in ringlets and large blue eyes. They turned and followed Frieda now, moving gracefully. How did they move with such ease and grace? They had two pairs of legs, it must be cumbersome for them, at least at times. Phoebus watched them leave, thinking of Esmerelda and how beautiful and graceful she was.

"Ah, the twins," said Heracles, appearing behind him. He was had an enormous bundle of firewood slung across his shoulder. "They are lovely, no?"

"They're quite graceful."

"Ah, and you haven't even seen them dance!"

"They dance?"

"It's part of their act," said Heracles. "Dierk plays the fiddle for them and they dance. You'll have to watch them when the show opens tomorrow."

"I thought they were in the Tent of Freaks."

"Oh, they are. But you don't think they just stand there?"

Phoebus shrugged. "I've never been to a circus. I don't know what to think."

"You're in luck, soldier," said Heracles, clapping him on the back. "You're in luck."

~xXx~

She had barely fallen asleep when she heard it. She stood up, shaking the sleep away and listened. The thundering of horse's hooves sounded far-off and distant, but it was growing louder. Horses, several of them, were approaching, and horses always carried riders; those riders were almost always soldiers. She leapt up into the wagon, reaching through the darkness and finding Pierre's shoulder.

"Pierre, Pierre, wake up!"

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Mother? What is it?" He turned his head; he could hear the horses too.

"Take your sister and Katarina into the woods," she whispered. He was shaking Marie awake now, and Katarina was sitting up. "Hide!"

Pierre, Marie, and Katarina stumbled down from the wagon. They were holding hands as they bolted across the road and into the woods. Rosalie watched as they slipped into the brush. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and the moon was full; she could see Pierre glancing back over his shoulder at her as he led Marie and Katarina into the woods. Rosalie turned now, squinting up the road. There were four men on horseback approaching them. She could see moonlight glinting off of armor, and she scrambled back into the wagon, digging frantically for one of the knives she'd stolen from the dead soldier earlier. She found them and tucked one into the back of her skirt, hiding it beneath her sash. She sheathed the other one and tucked it into her belt.

"You there, woman!"

She gasped. They were much closer than she'd expected. She glanced towards the woods and was relived to see that Pierre, Marie, and Katarina had vanished.

"What are you doing out here at this time of night?" One of the riders dismounted and approached her. She climbed down from the wagon.

"I'm going to Lyon," she said calmly, "my cousin lives there. She's expecting her first baby – "

"What city did you come from?"

"Reims."

The other riders had dismounted now and were circling the wagon. She watched them. One of them climbed up into the wagon and began rummaging through her belongings. She swallowed her anger, ignoring him and turning back to the man who was speaking to her. "Prove it."

"Sir?"

"Prove to me that you're from Reims," he said. "I think I've seen you around Paris."

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, "you must be mistaken. I've never been to Paris."

"Are you traveling alone?" called the man in the wagon. He was digging through one of her trunks.

"Yes."

The man was holding something now, examining it. In the moonlight, Rosalie saw that it was one of Marie's dolls. "You aren't traveling with any children?"

"No, sir. My cousin's expecting her first baby, that doll is a gift for it."

"And this?" the man put the doll down and held up one of Marie's dresses now.

"I'm a seamstress," said Rosalie quickly. "I've been selling my wares at farmhouses on the road."

She suddenly felt a sharp, blinding pain in the side of her face; the man in front of her had struck her. She saw lights flashing in her eyes and struggled not to fall over. She tasted blood. "Don't lie to us, woman," he said. "Where is the Judge's daughter?" He came at her again, and she grabbed the knife in her belt, brandishing it threateningly.

She heard one of the men laughing; they were stepping closer to her now, surrounding her. "Get away from me," she said.

"Where did you get that knife?" They stepped closer to her. She swung the knife, slicing it through the air. They were circling her; she couldn't face all of them at once. She felt someone grab her from behind and she cried out, squirming and thrashing, managing to escape his arms. She spun around, jabbing the knife at him. She felt something hard and cold strike her in the back of the head. The pain was an intense, throbbing agony, and she fell. Darkness swirled around her, the world rapidly losing focus, and she was unconscious before she hit the ground.


	12. Still 1496, Part VIII

STILL 1496…

She could feel the handle of the knife digging into her back. She grasped at it, struggling to reach it; the soldiers had bound her wrists behind her back, but now her hands were pressed painfully between her back and the ground. She could barely move her fingers. Her head throbbed, and she had to fight to stay awake. The soldiers had built a fire while she was unconscious, and now she saw their faces.

"There now," one of the soldiers tossed a handful of coins at her. They landed in the dirt beside her, shimmering in the firelight. "It isn't rape if we pay you, is it?"

"Of course not." The man on top of her spoke now, turning to his comrade and laughing. "That's the way it is with Gypsy harlots." He squeezed one of her breasts. "Besides, I think this one likes it."

The pain was blinding but she refused to scream. Screaming would only tell Pierre, Marie, and Katarina that something horrible was happening to her. They would rush from the woods to help her and be trapped by the soldiers. The soldiers would not harm Katarina, but only because the Judge would have them killed if they did. They were to return her to him alive and unharmed. It would be different for Pierre and Marie; they were only Gypsies, and would be tortured and killed before her very eyes.

They would probably kill her once they tired of her. She refused to contemplate her own impending death. If she could only reach the knife that was pressed flat between her back and the ground…she groped for it, her fingertips brushing the handle. She could feel the cold metal beneath her blouse; she hoped she hadn't cut herself. She doubted that the soldiers would notice any more of her blood. Her lip had stopped bleeding, but she knew that her thighs were now smeared with her own blood.

"Hurry it up, will you? I want another go at her."

She had to fight back her tears; she would not let them see her cry. It was what they wanted, and it was one thing that she would never give them.

~xXx~

The woods, which had looked so pleasant and peaceful in the daylight, were pitch-black and terrifying. Branches scratched at her face and stones jabbed painfully at her feet; she deeply regretted not putting on her shoes. Marie was still gripping her hand, whimpering slightly. She could barely see her. Around them leaves crunched and bushes shifted as though great beasts were moving around.

"We have to go back," said Pierre suddenly. Katarina stared at him, squinting through the dark. She could barely make out his features. "My mother – "

"How do we get back?" she asked. She looked over her shoulder. All she could see was darkness. The trees were so thick they blotted out the moonlight that had bathed the roadway.

"We turn around! It can't be that hard!" Pierre sounded flustered, as though he was about to cry. "You and Marie wait here, and – "

"No! You can't leave us!" She reached out and grabbed his other hand. "We don't know where we are!"

"But – but my mother's still out there! What if they've killed her?"

"She's probably in the woods right now looking for us!"

"Then why can't I hear her calling?"

"Because if you could hear her, then those guards could too. Please, let's just stay here for now, and we'll find our way back to the main road when the sun comes up." She could hear Pierre gasping now, silently sobbing in the darkness. She stepped closer to him, pulling Marie along with her. He embraced them, holding them both close. "She'll be all right, Pierre," she whispered, "she'll find us in the morning."

~xXx~

The darkness was everywhere. It surrounded Esmerelda and seemed to fill her, entering through her mouth and nose. She did not know how long she'd been locked in the wine cellar. She now wondered, wishing she'd kept track of how many times Jehan had come and brought food to her. He must have come in at least twice a day with porridge and soup. She leaned back against the wall, struggling to remember.

She'd long stopped trying to escape from her bonds. The rope that Claude had bound her with was thick and she couldn't break it. She had also stopped crying long ago; it was as though she had run out of tears. She wondered if that meant that she would die soon. She wasn't sure if she'd lost her will to live or not; she still wanted to get out of the wine cellar. She wanted to escape it more than anything.

She rolled onto her side. She was fairly certain that she was facing the door. She began to struggle against the ropes again, moving her wrists back and forth. She groaned in pain; her skin was red and raw, and it hurt to struggle like this. She stopped, panting heavily, then rolled onto her back.

She had noticed that Jehan carried a dagger with him. It had an ornate silver handle with some sort of green stone in it. It was always at his hip. She had also noticed that he continued to stare at her with lust in his eyes. Lately he'd become bolder, reaching out and touching her hair, brushing it back from her face as he fed her. He'd allowed his hand to linger on her cheek, and, on more than one occasion, had groped at her legs while he placed her in a seated position against the wall.

He disgusted her almost as much as his brother did. Esmerelda was starting to think that seducing him was the only way she could escape from the ropes and the wine cellar. The thought sickened and shamed her; she had never willingly given herself to Claude, had never enjoyed his touch. She shuddered at the thought of giving herself to Jehan, but she could no longer afford to be so proud.

~xXx~

She could feel the knife handle, she could hold it in her fist through the fabric of her blouse, but she couldn't move the knife without cutting herself. She edged it upwards anyway, slowly pulling it out of the back of her skirt. She hoped that she could maneuver the blade up towards her hands to cut the ropes. She had not kept track of how many times the soldiers had raped her; two of them had gone into the forest for more firewood. She stared at the forest, hoping against hope that they wouldn't come across Pierre, Marie, and Katarina.

One of the remaining soldiers approached her, and she stopped trying to get the knife. She stared up at him; it was the man who'd thrown money at her and insisted that it wasn't rape if he paid her. He sat down beside her now, putting an arm around her and pulling her closer to him. She jerked, trying to twist her body away from him, but he dug his fingers into her arm and held her tight.

"Tell me, seamstress, what are you really doing on the road to Lyon?"

"I'm going to see my cousin," she said. "She's expecting her first baby."

"Ah. And you're traveling alone?"

"Yes."

"That, my dear, is a lie," he said. "We've found enough provisions for at least two grown men in your wagon, as well as several dresses that would never fit you. Who are you really traveling with?"

She swallowed. "I've already told you. I'm traveling alone."

"You do know that Judge Claude Frollo's daughter was kidnapped by Gypsies?"

She shook her head. "No. I hadn't heard."

"Yes, it's true. Though if you're really from Reims, like you said, you wouldn't have known. See, the good Judge's daughter was bewitched by Gypsies. She cut her hair and dressed as a boy and fled with them. It's quite embarrassing for him, as you can see. The girl's young and foolish, though, and quite pretty. She has blonde hair and lovely green eyes. I can see why the Gypsies wanted her."

"I haven't seen her."

"Once again, you're lying to me," he said. "I'd hate to have to hurt you to get the truth." He pulled a knife from his belt. "I'd hate to have to mar that pretty face of yours."

She heard bushes and leaves rustling and looked up at the forest. The two soldiers were emerging, large bundles of firewood slung across their shoulders. Rosalie felt relief wash over her and had to struggle not to show it. They had not found Pierre, Marie, or Katarina. The children were still somewhere out there, but they were safe, at least for now.

"Look what I've found." One of the men approached, holding something in his hand. It was a scrap of red fabric; Marie had been wearing a red shirt. She must have caught it on one of the trees. What if Marie had unknowingly left a trail of fabric scraps? They would rape Marie if they found her; she was only ten, but she was a girl, and that was all that mattered to these men. They were more animal than man, really, and Rosalie suddenly found herself more terrified than ever.

"Whoever was with our little seamstress fled into the woods," he said, turning to toss a bundle of sticks onto the fire.

~xXx~

The night felt endless and cold despite the blankets. Cassandra lay awake, listening to her husband snore. She felt bed about drugging him, but he would have lain awake otherwise. It would be better for him to wake up refreshed tomorrow. She watched him now, noticing for the first time the crow's feet around his eyes and the laugh lines around his mouth. She touched her own face, but couldn't feel any wrinkles.

Beside her, Clopin moaned in his sleep. She put her arms around him, and he nestled closer to her, resting his head against her breast like a child. She'd held Giovanni this way once before; he'd been ill. Clopin had gone to the apothecary in search of medicine. It had been the middle of summer, but Giovanni had shivered as though it was winter, and she'd held him, stroking his hair, waiting for the fever to break.

She wondered if Clopin was dreaming of Giovanni, or perhaps his upcoming task. He would leave at dawn and ride out to find Rosalie. He would take Katarina and bring her back to the Judge. The Judge would send Katarina to a nunnery, but perhaps it wouldn't be so bad for her. She'd have food and shelter and, perhaps, one day her freedom. Perhaps the Judge would let them leave Paris. If Katarina was in a nunnery, they would pose no threat to her. Paris was becoming so ugly.

Cassandra closed her eyes, willing herself into a troubled sleep.


	13. Still 1496, Part IX

STILL 1496…

He had promised himself that he would not cry and was now deeply ashamed that he'd broken that promise. The cell was dark and frightening and cold, so cold it hurt. He pressed himself into the corner, hiding his face. He couldn't let anyone see him cry.

He didn't know how long he'd been in the cell, only that he was hungry. He hadn't eaten since before he and Katarina had left the Court to see her mother's grave. How long ago had that been? Hours? Days? The cell was windowless; he couldn't see sunrises or sunsets. He couldn't figure out what time it was or how long he'd been there. He wondered bleakly if anyone would come for him. He liked to think that his aunt and uncle were planning a way to free him. He refused to think for an instant that they wouldn't.

"You there, boy."

He wiped his eyes and turned his head. The Judge was standing at the bars of the cell. Giovanni looked at him. In the dimness, the Judge's face looked gnarled and hollow; it reminded Giovanni of one of his uncle's puppets, a flame-red demon puppet that had terrified him as a child. The Judge stood perfectly still, his blue eyes glimmering in the torchlight.

"Come here," he said, motioning to Giovanni impatiently.

Giovanni rose, his legs shaking. His legs had fallen asleep, and he trembled and staggered as he made his way to the front of the cell. The Judge looked down at him, scrutinizing him.

"How well do you know Katarina?" he asked.

Giovanni was somewhat startled, but shook his head and shrugged. "Not very well," he said. It would be pointless to deny knowing her; after all, the guards had seen the two of them together in the graveyard. "I met her in the graveyard. I didn't even know she was a girl."

The Judge stared at him for a long time. "I see. And what were you doing there?"

"Laying flowers on Esmerelda's grave," he said.

"Why?"

Giovanni swallowed. He had gone to the graveyard hoping to find his own mother's grave. He had never seen it before, and after Katarina's mother's sudden death, he felt horrible for it. "My uncle told me about her," he said quickly. "He said that she sacrificed her life and happiness for our people." The lie didn't sound convincing to him, and he cringed away from the bars. Pierre was a fantastic liar, and now he wished that he had his gift.

The Judge continued to stare at him. He was smirking now, looking more and more like the terrifying demon marionette. "I'll get the truth out of you sooner or later, boy."

Giovanni scrambled back into the corner as the Judge turned and left. He was frightened and tired and above all cold; it was so painfully cold in the cell. He pressed himself to the wall, trying to convince himself that it would make him warmer.

~xXx~

Cassandra had drugged him the night before. He felt thick and groggy and so angry he could've slapped her. It wasn't her fault, she'd only been trying to help him; he'd be worse off if he hadn't gotten any sleep the night before. Still, he felt as though she'd cheated him somehow, deceived him. The sun had been up for an hour and he only had three days to find Rosalie and convince her to hand Katarina over to him. Time was running out, and he'd wasted an hour because she had drugged him the night before.

"Be safe," she said, hugging him. "Please be safe."

"I will." He could feel her heart beating. It felt fast and panicked, and he regretted shouting at her earlier. He could feel her shudder; she was struggling not to cry. She pulled away from him, forcing herself to smile.

"I'll see you when you return," she said.

"Yes," he said. "And I'll be back soon."

He approached the horse and gripped the reins now. It was an old horse, one he'd had for several years, and he hoped now that it could make the trip. He didn't intend to stop until he caught up with Rosalie. He led the horse from the Court and onto the main road. The road was deserted, and he was glad; he had no real desire to spend the last of his money bribing guards. He mounted the horse now and dug his heels into its sides, commanding it to run as fast as it possibly could.

~xXx~

The night – the vast, endless night – was finally over, but the nightmare continued. Three of the soldiers had gone into the woods. They knew she'd been traveling with someone, and were now searching for that person. She hoped that they wouldn't find Pierre, Marie, or Katarina. She knew that Pierre was smart when it came to hiding in the streets of Paris, and now she prayed that his intelligence could carry over to the forest.

She had the knife tilted into the proper position now. She had to cut her bonds without being noticed now, and it would be difficult; the remaining soldier was watching her like a hawk. He approached her now, sitting down beside her. She shifted, trying to distance herself from him. She'd been kneeling in the same position since the previous night, and her legs ached as she moved.

"You're not a convincing liar," he said. "I aim to get the truth out of you one way or another."

"I've only told you the truth."

He laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound that made her shudder. He'd laughed that way when his comrade had thrown the money at her after raping her. He moved closer to her now. "You must hate me, seamstress," he said. He drew his knife now, twirling it so that the blade glinted in the sunlight. "You'll grow to hate me even more if you don't tell me the truth."

She watched the knife, trying to look impassive and uncaring. Part of her knew that if they'd really wanted to kill her, they would have done so already. No, these men didn't intend to kill her, at least not yet; they wanted to hurt her some more, and the thought terrified and sickened her. What sort of men delighted in hurting others so much? What sort of monsters were these men?

"What would your mother think if she could see you now?" she asked.

"What?"

"Does she know she's raised a monster? Your mother, I mean," she said.

The soldier's features darkened. He grabbed her by the hair, jerking her closer to him now. Pain filled her scalp, and she had to clench her teeth to keep from screaming. He wanted her to scream, to acknowledge the pain she was in; her screams would be his reward, and she would not give them to him. She could feel the blade of the knife against her shoulder now; it was cold and thin. He pressed it against her lightly, not drawing any blood. "My mother hated filthy Gypsies like you," he whispered, "if she was here right now, she'd kill you herself. Now tell me, harlot, who were you traveling with?"

"No one." She had to force the words out. He let go of her hair now and she fought back a sigh of relief. She could see the frustration building in his eyes; he was a man who was used to seeing others writhe in the pain he caused. He rose now, jamming the knife back into its sheath. He stepped away from her and began pacing, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She, in turn, watched him, and began to slowly move the knife along the ropes that bound her wrists.

~xXx~

She did not know how long the sun had been up, but she did know that they were lost. Katarina didn't remember falling asleep; Pierre shook her awake as the sun was rising. He stumbled now, stopping and leaning against a tree. His eyes were bloodshot and surrounded by dark circles; he hadn't slept at all the previous night. He looked around, his eyes wild, struggling to remember whether they'd come that way or not. The forest had been vast and spooky in the night, and it still was. Everything seemed somehow different now, though. She couldn't remember which direction they had come from, which trees and rocks they had passed. They were standing near a river now, and she couldn't remember ever seeing it before.

"I think it's back this way," he said, pointing. Katarina followed his gaze; he seemed to be pointing randomly ahead.

"We have to rest," she said, sitting down. Beside her, Marie sat as well.

"We can rest once we've reached the main road, come on – "

"Pierre, we haven't had anything to eat," she said, "and we're lost. Let's just sit for a while and try to remember – "

"My mother is still out there! What if she's hurt? What if she's been killed? We have to get to her – "

"Please, Pierre, we're lost and tired – "

"This is all your fault anyway!" Pierre shouted. He marched up to her, and she rose. "This is all your fault! If you had just stayed in your big fancy house – "

She slapped him, amazed and shocked at how her hand seemed to move on its own. Beside her, Marie gasped. "I had to leave it," she said, "the Judge was about to send me away to a nunnery in Reims and – "

"You would have been better off there!" shouted Pierre, rubbing his face. "You think everything's fun and games because you get to go home to a hot meal and warm bed every night, but it isn't! Those men were looking for you, and they've probably killed my mother, and it's all your fault!"

She felt the anger and rage building up inside of her and struggled to press it down. Pierre was tired and hungry and worried about his mother, she told herself. She would be acting the same way if she was in his place, wouldn't she? "My mother wanted me to have a better life," she said, her voice shaking, "she wanted me to have the life she once had – "

"If her life was so amazing, why did she leave it? She gave herself to that stupid old Judge for a fancy house! Your mother's a whore!"

The anger that had been bubbling up inside of her suddenly snapped. Katarina lunged at Pierre, knocking him to the ground. He cried out in surprise, grabbing at her wrists. She struck him again, dragging her nails across his face. "Don't you ever speak about my mother again!" she shouted, "he forced her to marry him! He threatened to kill everyone she ever loved!"

She did not hear Marie screaming, nor did she hear the voice telling her to stop it. She could barely hear Pierre yelling at her, thrashing at her with his fists and insisting that everything was her fault. She wasn't aware of anything until she felt a pair of hands – large, strong, masculine hands – grab her by the waist and lift her up off the ground. Pierre was scrambling to his feet, his eyes wide with horror, and Marie was screaming louder than ever now. Katarina turned, coming face to face with the ugliest looking creature she'd ever seen.

~xXx~

He followed the sound of the yelling, moving quickly. It sounded for all the world like children bickering. He came across them, two boys and a girl. The boys were fighting, rolling around on the ground, all punches and kicks. The blonde-haired boy seemed to have the upper hand and was striking the darker boy repeatedly.

He grabbed the blonde boy, wrenching him up off of the other boy. He was lighter that Quasimodo had thought at first, and thrashed like a wildcat. The little girl began to scream again; the dark-haired boy (her brother, they had to be brother and sister, they looked so alike) scrambled to his feet and grabbed her hand. He pulled her close to him, pressing a hand over her mouth to quiet her.

"What's going on here?" Quasimodo demanded. The little girl continued to scream, her thin high voice muffled by her brother's hand.

"I…we're lost…" said the blonde-haired boy slowly.

"We have to find the main road," said the dark-haired boy.

Quasimodo shook his head. "I abandoned the main road days ago," he said, "I'm afraid I don't know my way back. Are you going to Lyon?"

"Yes. My mother – we were traveling and we were attacked and – " his lower lip trembled and he began to cry, "and she's still on the main road and I can't find a way back – "

Quasimodo approached him slowly. "Easy now," he said, carefully placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Easy, it's going to be all right." He had never had any sort of experience with children, aside from the few he'd seen in the marketplace. As far as he knew, there were two kinds of children: the kind that threw things at him, and the kind that fled in terror. The little girl was still screaming, her eyes wide with fear. He could understand why she feared him (after all, he was ugly, a regular monstrosity), but the screaming was incessant. If the bandits who'd attacked these children were still in the forest, they'd find them because of the girl's screaming. "Can you make your sister stop screaming?"

The boy grabbed the girl by the shoulders and turned her so that she faced him. "Marie, look at me." He pointed to his mouth. "Be quiet." She stopped screaming. She looked at him now, whimpering, and he kissed her forehead. "Good."

"I can bring you to Lyon," said Quasimodo. "We'll round up a search party and go after your mother." He wasn't sure if he'd be able to do that, but the boy looked at him with such relief and hope in his eyes, he couldn't bear to go back on his word. "Erm – what are your names?"

"I'm Pierre," said the darker boy. "This is Marie, my sister." He patted the girl on the head. "She's deaf, but she can read your lips if you look at her and speak slowly. He pointed to the blonde boy. "That's my cousin, Carlo."

"I am Quasimodo," he said. He looked at the children. They were dirty and covered with scratches from the branches and brambles. The boys were both bruised, refusing to look at each other. He hadn't been able to pick out what they'd been yelling while they fought, but he assumed that it wasn't fully resolved and he had no desire to become a part of it. "I'll catch some fish," he said, moving towards the river now. "We'll eat before we start moving."

"When will we reach Lyon?" asked Pierre, gripping his sister's hand as they followed.

"I'm not sure. A few days, I think." He hoped, at least for the boy's mother's sake, that it would not take that long to reach Lyon and form a search party to look for her. It was quite possible that the woman was dead; he couldn't bear the thought. Pierre and Marie (and probably Carlo, too) would be devastated. Chances are the woman was their only care provider. Why else would Carlo be traveling with an aunt and cousins who bore no resemblance to him?

He pushed the thoughts away and led the children to the river. He picked up the fishing pole he'd made from a stick and some string. He turned to the boys. "I'll need you to build a small fire," he said, "so we can cook the fish." They nodded, then scrambled in opposite directions to get firewood. He looked down at Marie now. She stared at him. "You have to be quiet," he said, pointing to his mouth as Pierre had done. "So you don't scare the fish."

She blinked, nodding, and watched in silence as he dropped the string into the water and waited for the fish to start biting.

~xXx~

"Stop apologizing, I'm not going to forgive you anyway."

She heard Pierre sigh. Her jaw ached from where he'd struck her, but it barely mattered. He'd had the nerve to insult her mother, and she was determined to never forgive him for as long as she lived. Her mother was practically a martyr. She'd sacrificed everything for the people she cared about and Pierre had the nerve to call her a whore. It made Katarina so angry she couldn't stop shaking. She wanted to hit him over and over again.

She lifted her pile of sticks and made her way back to the riverbank, where Quasimodo and Marie were sitting. Quasimodo was in the process of teaching Marie how to clean and gut fish.

"No, don't pull it towards you. You'll cut yourself." He held his knife and fish up so she could see them. "Away, like this." He scraped the knife along the fish, peeling away a thin strip of silver scales. Marie mimicked him, holding up her own fish for him to see.

"Good job! Oh, hello Carlo."

"Hello." She was somewhat startled, but smiled anyway. She would have to get used to being called Carlo in order for the charade to work. She still wasn't exactly sure why Pierre hadn't just told Quasimodo that she was really a girl. Perhaps he was trying to protect her somehow. It didn't matter. She still hated him. She sat down beside the small fire and began feeding sticks into it, watching as it grew.

Pierre emerged from the woods now with his own pile of sticks and sat down beside Marie. She pointed to her fish, eager to show him that she'd cleaned it all by herself. He smiled at her, making hand motions that probably assured her that she'd done a fantastic job.

"So, you're going to Lyon with your aunt and cousins?" asked Quasimodo. He was cooking a fish now; it hung precariously on a stick above the fire.

"Yes," she said.

"Ah. What awaits you in Lyon?"

"Family," said Pierre quickly. "Our grandmother lives in Lyon."

Quasimodo nodded, handing the fish to Marie and spearing another one to cook. Katarina watched as Marie devoured the fish, realizing just how hungry she herself was. The cooking fish smelled heavenly now. "Once we've all eaten, we'll get going." He handed the fish to Pierre now and proceeded to cook another one. Pierre looked down at the fish in his hands, and gave it to Katarina.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier," he said. "It isn't your fault."

Katarina stared at the fish. She was starving, but she didn't want to forgive Pierre. She was still furious with him, and besides, Quasimodo was cooking another fish for her. Still, she didn't want to wait, and Pierre looked so sad, as if he really did feel sorry about what he'd said. She sighed and took the fish. "It's all right," she said. "I forgive you."

~xXx~

She had noticed the wedding band flashing on his finger when he'd grabbed her hair, and now she pitied the man's poor wife. He was on top of her now, grunting like an animal as he violated her again. The fact that anyone could love this man enough to marry him angered her now, and she found herself wanting to find the man's wife and cut her throat.

"What would your wife say if she could see you right now?" she hissed.

"Filthy whore, shut your mouth!"

"If this was what your wedding night was like, then I pity her."

He slapped her hard across the face. She saw stars; he had stopped moving and was panting now. "You're just a Gypsy whore," he said, climbing off of her and pulling his trousers back up. He glared down at her, then pulled her skirt down over her legs. "She wouldn't care what happened to you."

"What would she think if she knew you were a rapist?" She managed to sit up now, staring at him. Bringing up his wife had flustered him, and now he was gripping the knife in his belt, drumming his fingers along the handle. Something about his wife was making him uneasy. "Do you two have children?"

He turned and began to walk towards the woods. Rosalie began moving the knife behind her frantically. The rope was thick, but she'd been sawing at it for hours now, and it had to be close to breaking. It just had to be. She could feel it loosening and breaking, and she wrenched her hands free. She rose now, gripping the knife, her legs shaking, barely aware of the sound of horses drawing closer and closer.

~xXx~

He saw Rosalie's wagon from the top of the hill, and he urged the horse on. It was panting heavily and shaking, but none of this registered. He had found Rosalie. It had taken him an entire day, but he had found her. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky blood red as it went down.

The horse was slowing, and he tugged the reins sharply, making it stop. It stopped, panting and grateful. The wagon was close, it would just be easier if he ran on foot. Clopin climbed down from the horse. He saw the man emerge from behind the wagon and head towards the woods, and he froze. The man was wearing a soldier's uniform; he was one of the Parisian guards. He stared at the woods, gripping the knife in his belt.

Clopin felt his stomach churning. Frollo had sent his own men to retrieve Katarina. They had probably killed Rosalie, Pierre, and Marie. He had told Frollo where Katarina was going and who she'd be with. This was all his fault. Rosalie and her children (Pierre and Marie – oh God, they were so young) were probably dead and buried in a shallow grave by now.

He nearly fainted when he saw Rosalie come barreling out after the soldier. Her clothes were torn and smeared with dirt, and even in the waning sunlight he could see the bruises on her face. She leapt at the man as he started to turn around, catching him off-guard. Clopin started running towards her, drawing his own knife as he ran. Rosalie was on top of the soldier now, straddling him, plunging a knife into his stomach.

The soldier screamed, swatting at her with his massive hands. Rosalie swung the knife, impaling the man's hand with it. The blade sank all the way through, and it suddenly reminded Clopin of a man he had killed nearly ten years ago. It had been one of the men who'd attacked Cassandra, the second one that he and her father had killed; Cassandra's father had pinned the man to a table by driving knives through his upturned palms. The man's screams had been intense, but nothing compared to the way this man was screaming now.

He saw no sign of Pierre, Marie, or Katarina, and this made his heart race uncomfortably. He had no time to think of them now; he now saw four horses, each with a saddle bearing the insignia of the Parisian guards on it. There were at least three other men here. He had no idea where they were; perhaps Rosalie had already killed them and dragged their bodies into the woods. He hoped that this was the case.

"Dear God!" another soldier had charged from the woods. He stared wide-eyed and terrified at Rosalie, not noticing or acknowledging Clopin. Clopin sprang at him, knocking him over.

"Where are they?" he demanded, pressing his knife to the man's throat.

"Who?"

"Just kill him." Rosalie's voice came from behind him, and it was a narrow, angry hiss. He glanced at her. Her hands and arms were covered in blood. "He doesn't know where they are, and he doesn't deserve to live."

Clopin stared at her. Her lower lip was swollen and caked in dry blood. A bruise was forming on her cheek. Her clothing was mud-smeared and torn; there was a large red bloodstain on the front of her skirt.

"I'm sorry!" the soldier beneath him had begun to sob. "Please, I – I didn't want to, but the others, they forced me – "

Rosalie spat at the man, a thick glob of spittle landing on his face. Clopin felt his hand gripping the knife tighter, and he pressed down on the man's throat. He felt the hot red blood spilling out over his fingers. He rose, ignoring the man's dying gasps and approached Rosalie. She stared at him now, her eyes puzzled, as though she had just realized he was there.

"Where's Cassandra?" she asked, "and Giovanni?"

"They're still in Paris," he said. "I…I've come for Katarina."

She blinked. "But…" she gasped. "You were going to trade her for him?"

"Yes." He hated admitting it. It made him feel cheap; it reminded him that he was about to betray Esmerelda and Katarina, and that he had probably betrayed Rosalie too. She stared at him now, looking angry and confused.

"Did…did you tell the Judge where I would be?" her voice was thin, as though she was about to cry. "Do you know what they did to me?"

"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm so sorry – I told him I would bring Katarina back, I didn't think he'd send anyone – "

She struck him, slamming her fist against his chest, leaving behind a bloody handprint. "How could you?" she demanded. He let her strike him again. It somehow made him feel better, if only slightly. She raised her hand as if to hit him again, then let it fall back to her side.

"Rosalie," he said, taking her hands, "I will do whatever I can to make this right." He led her from the woods, moving towards her wagon. His horse had found its way down the hill and was now standing by the wagon. "I will find Pierre, Marie, and Katarina, and I will make this right."


	14. Still 1496, Part X

STILL 1496…

"I'd do the same if it was Pierre or Marie." It had been well over an hour since Rosalie had spoken, and her voice startled him. He'd assumed that she was furious with him, that she was ignoring him out of anger. She looked at him now, edging closer to the fire, stretching her hands out to warm them. They were still bloodstained; he'd offered her some of his water, but she'd refused it.

"Oh." He didn't know what to say to her, but he was glad that she was talking to him again. Night had fallen quickly, and, according to Rosalie, there were still two soldiers in the woods. They would probably emerge shortly, and he and Rosalie were more than ready for them. Clopin's back and shoulders still ached; he had buried the men he'd killed earlier in one shallow grave behind Rosalie's wagon.

She patted his arm now. Dry blood flaked off of her hand and onto his coat, but he didn't care. The coat was already stained with sweat and mud; the blood was barely noticeable. They would enter the woods at dawn to search for Pierre, Marie, and Katarina. Horrible and unfair as it was, as much as it betrayed Esmerelda and her memory, he would bring Katarina back to the Judge.

~xXx~

"Ha! I knew that seamstress was lying!"

Quasimodo didn't know what the soldier was talking about, but he was more concerned with the man's sword than his words. Pierre, Marie, and Carlo were in a huddled pile on the riverbank; with the rushing river behind them, they had nowhere to flee to. He raised his hands, showing the soldier that he was unarmed. "These children were lost in the woods," he said calmly, "I'm bringing them with me to Lyon, and – "

"Liar! You three are under arrest for abducting Katarina Frollo!"

The name stung him, and he glanced quickly back at the children. Marie bore no resemblance whatsoever to Frollo or Esmerelda for that matter. He'd seen Frollo in Paris with a small child – a dark-haired male child; he didn't know if the man had a daughter or not. The soldier was laughing now, breathlessly explaining that they'd all be executed once they reached Paris. There was something wild and frightening about him. He was waving the sword as though it was a flag, pointing randomly at the children. He was growing harder to understand, slurring his speech like a drunkard.

He stepped forward now, nearly falling. Quasimodo bent and picked up a large rock. It was cold and ragged and heavy, and the soldier didn't even notice it. Quasimodo glanced back at the children again. "Turn around!" he said, "turn around and shut your eyes!" He did not look to see whether or not they'd obeyed him. He threw the rock, lobbing it at the soldier's head. It hit the man hard, and he fell soundlessly.

Quasimodo approached him now, bending over him. He was a tall man, well-built, and fair-haired. He took the man's sword from his limp hands, casting it aside, and checked the man's pulse. He was dead. Quasimodo would have to drag the body into the woods and bury it. He glanced over his shoulder at Pierre, Marie, and Carlo, but couldn't tell if they were looking at him or not. Their faces were shrouded in shadow. He hoped they hadn't seen him kill the man.

He dug through the man's pockets now, pulling out loose coins and bits of crumbled biscuits. He found a large bunch of bright red berries. He looked at them, holding them up in the moonlight and examining them. Quasimodo had noticed that none of the animals in the woods ate red berries, and had also avoided them. This man had not been so clever. He cast the berries aside, and lifted the man now, hefting him over his shoulder. He carried him into the woods and began to search for a place to bury him.

~xXx~

She left the Court of Miracles just before sunset and walked towards the Palace of Justice quickly. She pulled her shawl tighter around her and entered the building without hesitation. Cassandra had not been inside of the Palace of Justice for nearly fourteen years. The halls were claustrophobic and unfamiliar, and she wanted to leave more than anything. She pressed onward, shoving her own memories and feelings back.

"May I help you?"

"I need to speak with Judge Claude Frollo."

The man looked surprised; he had probably never met a Gypsy who was actively seeking an audience with the Judge. After all, the Judge hated Gypsies, and because he held so much power, they feared him. Nonetheless, the man led her down a flight of stairs and through a narrow, winding hallway.

"Wait here, please." He knocked on a thick wooden door, then went inside, closing it behind him before she could get a proper look at the room. She waited. Seconds ticked by, but they felt like years, and Cassandra felt the anxiety inside of her rising. It was excruciating. Her only source of comfort was the fabric hand puppet she'd tucked into her corset. The puppet that had been hers for a few fleeting years before she'd given it to Giovanni. He had loved it so much when he was young, carrying it everywhere with him and sleeping with it at night. It felt reassuring to feel it pressed against her stomach. Finally, the door swung open and the man stepped out. "The Judge will see you." He left before she could thank him, and she entered the room.

"Yes, what is it?" The Judge looked impatient. He was seated behind a desk covered in neat stacks of paper.

"Your honor," she said, "I've come on behalf of my nephew – "

He frowned at her and rose. "The blonde child who was arrested vandalizing my late wife's grave?" he asked, cutting her off.

"He meant no disrespect, your honor," she said, pulling her shawl tighter despite the room's heat. She had worn a dress with long sleeves and a high collar, hoping that a display of modesty and propriety would gain the Judge's favor. She hated the way he was looking at her, his steely blue eyes drilling into hers. "He is only a child, and I was hoping that you would find the mercy to – "

"Do you have my daughter with you?" he asked sharply.

She blinked. "No, your honor, but – "

He stepped towards her, and she had to fight the urge to back away from him. "Then why are you here?"

"I thought perhaps that – "

"That what? You'd come and beg and I would release him? Your husband tried that," he snapped angrily, his voice filled with malice. "Or perhaps he's not your husband. Perhaps he's your pimp and he's asked you to spread your legs so he can get his nephew back."

She gripped her shawl tighter, if only to prevent herself from slapping him. "No," she said, her voice trembling with rage. "My husband doesn't know I'm here. He left this morning to fetch your daughter."

The Judge stared at her. She wondered if he could see all the hate she felt for him, how much she wanted to strike him. "How can you care so much for a child that isn't even yours?" he asked finally.

"My husband and I raised him after his parents died," she said. "He's been like a son to me, your honor, and I love him as one."

"And you would do anything for his release?"

She fought to control the hate that was rising up within her as she nodded. "Yes." Giovanni was practically her son. She'd done everything except give birth to him and nurse him. She'd held him when he was ill and comforted him when he was upset. She remembered the way he had always smiled at her, reaching for with his chubby hands, longing to be held. She would not let the Judge take him from her.

The Judge smirked at her now as though he knew this. "You'd even spread your legs for me, wouldn't you, if it meant he was to be released?"

She nodded again.

"I was right about you," he said, "you're nothing but a harlot." He pointed to the door now, "take your filthy body elsewhere."

She turned and left the room so quickly it barely registered with her. She stood in the hallway, trying to catch her breath and shaking with rage. Her hate for the Judge knew no bounds; it felt as though it was consuming her, burning her. She looked around. The hallway was deserted, and she could not remember which direction she'd come from. She bit her lip, struggling to remember. The hallway stretched on ahead of her, and she didn't know if she should turn left or right.

She heard a rustling sound behind her and stepped away from the door. The Judge was moving about in his room with the desk and papers. Perhaps he was heading towards the door. She had no desire to see him again; she knew that she wouldn't be able to control herself if he insulted her again, that she'd strike him, and he'd probably have her executed for it. She turned and fled, unknowingly plunging into the wrong corridor.

~xXx~

She had seen Quasimodo hurl the massive rock at the man's head, had seen it collide with a sick crunching sound, and she could not keep herself from vomiting. She managed to turn away from Pierre and Marie and take a few stumbling steps towards the river before falling to her knees. She wretched into the bushes, ignoring the thick rustling sound that was undoubtedly Quasimodo lifting the man's corpse and carrying him into the woods.

"Katarina?" Pierre and Marie were beside her now. Pierre placed his hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. She looked around now. Quasimodo had not come out of the woods yet. Marie was sitting beside her, petting her hair and making soft cooing sounds. In her mind's eye, she kept seeing the man fall to the ground. The way his legs buckled and his body just seemed to crumple was hideous. She wondered how Marie could be so calm, but then remembered that she hadn't seen it. Pierre had been smart enough to press her face against his shoulder, shielding her from the soldier's death.

She heard the bushes rustling and looked back over her shoulder. Quasimodo was lumbering towards them. Even in the moonlight she could see the dirt on his hands. "How many men attacked you?" he asked.

Pierre shook his head. "I didn't see them," he said, "we heard the horses and my mother sent us into the woods to hide."

Quasimodo nodded as though he was thinking of something. "We should get moving again," he said. "Are you all right, Carlo?"

"Yes," she replied, quickly remembering her disguise. "I'm fine."

"All right. Come on then."

She got up without his help and brushed the dirt off of her trousers. Pierre was holding Marie's hand now, looking at Quasimodo. Katarina could tell that he was itching and eager to get moving.

~xXx~

He hated himself for crying again almost as much as he hated the guard standing on the other side of the bars. The guard was holding a bowl filled with something that smelled delicious, and Giovanni was starving. The guard held the bowl up out of his reach, laughing at him as he grabbed at it.

"Please," he said, "please give it to me, I'm so hungry – "

"Come on, boy, jump!" the guard laughed now, and Giovanni jumped, grabbing frantically at the bowl. He was so hungry. His stomach ached; it was as though it was on fire. He leaned against the bars now, trying to stop the tears that were streaming down his face.

He looked up at the bowl, his eyes catching something moving in the shadows behind the guard. It looked for all the world like someone was behind the guard. He squinted, straining to focus his eyes. The guard was too busy laughing and taunting him to notice, but someone was behind him. Giovanni's eyes widened; his aunt was standing in the shadows, her finger to her lips. He looked at the guard, at the bowl he was holding, and grabbed for it again.

He was hallucinating, he was seeing things; the hunger was killing him. Giovanni had always heard that people imagined their loved ones before they died. He was dying, this guard – this stupid, piggish, heartless oaf – was killing him. He grabbed at the bowl, his fingers nearly brushing it this time.

"Almost, boy, almost!"

His aunt seemed to be moving closer now, her bare feet moving soundlessly on the cold stone floor. Giovanni stared at her, watching her. She looked so real. What if he wasn't imagining her? What if he wasn't dying? What if she had come to rescue him? He watched her closely, wishing he could reach out and touch her just to see if she was real.

She was behind the guard now, so close she could probably touch him if she wanted to, and she moved swiftly, grabbing the sword in his belt. The guard didn't realize that she was there until it was too late and the sword was half-out of its sheath. The bowl clattered to the floor, and Giovanni dropped to his knees, reaching out and scooping up handfuls of the thin gray mush that spilled out of it.

He ate ravenously, barely tasting the watery porridge. It was cold and clammy, but it slid down his throat and eased the pain in his stomach.

"Open that cell," his aunt was saying. He looked up at her now. She was holding the sword with both hands, the tip aimed at the guard's throat.

"You – how did you – "

"Open it!"

The guard fumbled with his keys, nearly dropping them, and opened the cell. Giovanni scrambled to his feet and bolted from the cell, ignoring the rest of the porridge on the floor. He darted out of the cell, pushing past the guard and moving behind his aunt. He reached out to touch her, to make sure that she was real and that he wasn't dreaming, but he saw her body stiffen and stepped away from her. "Giovanni," she said, never taking her eyes off the guard, "take his keys."

He approached the guard slowly, cautiously. He had never seen his aunt look so stern and determined. It was frightening. He grabbed the keys from the guard and moved away from him quickly. The guard was glaring at his aunt now, hate blazing in his eyes. She stared back at him, unafraid, gripping the sword so tightly her knuckles had gone white. "Now get in there and close the door."

For a brief instant, Giovanni thought she was talking to him. He stared mutely as the guard stepped backwards into the cell and closed the door. It clicked shut, locking automatically. Cassandra lowered the sword now, letting the blade rest by her side. She turned to him now, reaching for him, and he hugged her. She was real and warm and tangible; he could even smell her. She smelled like wool and soot and onions, it was the way she had always smelled and he loved it.

~xXx~

She did not have time to weep and bemoan her situation. Her children were still somewhere in the woods, along with two armed men who were searching for them and would probably kill them. Clopin probably expected her to sit and weep on his shoulder, and she didn't blame him for this. She hadn't particularly prided herself on her chastity; she wasn't a blushing virgin, but she'd been celibate since Enjolras's death. She wasn't the type to pine for a dead husband, but she simply hadn't met anyone she could love as much as she'd loved him.

The bushes at the edge of the forest began to rustle and move, and Rosalie stood up now. Clopin was already standing, and he handed her one of the swords he'd taken off of the men he'd buried earlier. She took it. It was lighter than she had thought it would be, and she swung it through the air a few times. It cut through the wind easily. She wondered if it would cut through flesh this easily.

She had hoped that Pierre, Marie, and Katarina would emerge from the woods, and her heart sank as she saw the third soldier. At least he was empty-handed, and so distracted at seeing her free from her bonds that he didn't see Clopin come up along side him. Clopin plunged his knife into the man's leg at the knee, and the man screamed, dropping his own weapon in shock.

Rosalie watched as Clopin dragged him from the woods, throwing him down in front of the fire. He was trying to question the man, demanding to know what had become of the children Rosalie had been traveling with. She was somewhat relieved to hear the man say he hadn't seen them. She approached him now.

"Hold his legs open, Clopin," she said.

"Of course." Clopin moved, grabbing hold of the man's legs. The man wailed in pain, thrashing his good leg. "You like to call Gypsies barbaric," Clopin was saying, "and perhaps we are, because we castrate rapists."

"Please," gasped the man, "please, I – I've paid her, I can g-give her more – "

"So that explains these!" Clopin reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a fistful of coins. "I found them over there on the road." He glanced over at Rosalie. She knelt now, positioning the sword. It seemed to be too big for the job, but that didn't matter. She didn't intend for the man to survive anyway, only for his last moments to be complete agony.

"It's dirty money," she said. Beside her, Clopin nodded and reached for the man's face now. She watched as he stuffed the coins into the man's wide, blubbering mouth. The man gagged, turning and trying to spit the coins out. Rosalie gripped the sword with two hands now and began, very slowly, to push it into him.

~xXx~

It was well after dark by the time she and Giovanni returned to the Court of Miracles, and she felt shaky, almost giddy. She had put Theresa, Martine, and Jacques-Clopin to bed before going to the Palace of Justice, and she was relieved to find that they were still asleep. Giovanni helped her, moving in swift silence as though he read her mind.

Clopin had told her that they would need two horses to pull the caravan, and he had taken one of them with him this morning. Cassandra hitched the remaining horse. Hopefully it would be strong enough to take them out of Paris. She would pull the caravan herself if she had to. She lit a lamp and led the horse out to the crossroads. It followed her, pulling the caravan slowly, but without complaint. Hopefully they could put some distance between themselves and Paris before anyone realized that Giovanni had escaped.

She stared out at the darkened road that stretched on ahead of her. The moon was full, casting a low white light down, but it was still too dark to see properly. She would have to walk in front of the horse with the lantern, leading it. She looked back at the caravan. Giovanni was holding the reins, looking at her, waiting for her.

"All right," she said, gripping the horse's bridle. "Let's go."

She began to walk, and she felt the horse following her. Slowly but surely, they made their way down the road, and Paris receded from their sight like the remnants of a bad dream.


	15. Still 1496, Part XI

STILL 1496…

He wasn't particularly tired even though he'd been walking all night. He could tell, though, that the children were, and he had to force Pierre to stop and rest. Despite the boy's exhaustion, he was determined to keep going; the boy would walk himself to death if he had his way.

"You need your rest," said Quasimodo, "and I'm not going to carry you the rest of the way to Lyon." He didn't even know how far away Lyon was. "We'll sleep here for a few hours, then we'll get going again."

Pierre sat down, too tired to argue. Carlo and Marie sat beside him. Quasimodo watched them as they settled down, curling against each other for warmth. The sun had been up for roughly an hour, perhaps less, and it was still cold out. Pierre seemed to drift into sleep the moment he shut his eyes, and Quasimodo was relieved. Pierre was filled with tension; it hung in the air around him, enveloping him. He was worried about his mother, of course. Not knowing what had become of her was eating him alive, and there was nothing Quasimodo could do to ease the pain.

Quasimodo turned and sat down a few paces away from them. He picked up a thick-looking tree branch and began whittling it. He hadn't carved anything in weeks, and it felt good to slice his knife through the wood. He worked, feeling the rough bark peeling away beneath his fingers and letting it fall to the grass. He stared at the branch now, turning it over, wondering what he should carve.

He heard a rustling sound behind him and turned. Marie was watching him, crouching behind him like a small cat. He patted the ground beside him, and she came and sat, hugging her knees to her chest. "You can't sleep?" he asked. She shook her head. He had never heard her make a sound; as far as he knew, she couldn't talk. She could communicate with her hands. He had seen her and Pierre holding conversations with their fingers, but he didn't know what they were saying.

"Aren't you tired?" he asked. "We've been walking all night." She nodded. She pointed to the branch now. "You'd like to know what I'm making?" She nodded again. Quasimodo shrugged. "I'm not sure yet."

He put the branch down on his lap and opened the small pouch he carried around his neck. He withdrew the small carving of Esmerelda he'd made so long ago, turning it over in his hands before giving it to Marie. She took it, her eyes bright with curiosity. She held it delicately, as though it was a fragile egg, and examined it, running her fingertips over its curves.

"I used to live in Paris," he told her. "And there was a woman there that I loved very much." She blinked, then pointed to the figure. "Yes, that's her. She loved someone else, though."

It was true. Esmerelda had loved Phoebus. Before she'd been forced to marry Frollo, she had loved Phoebus more than she could possibly have loved anyone else. Marie began to move her free hand, her fingers fluttering in the air. She stopped as though she'd realized that he wouldn't be able to understand her. She pointed to her eye, then trailed her finger down her cheek, like she was wiping away tears.

He nodded. "Yes," he said, "it was very sad." He picked up the branch again and cut it in half. "What does your mother look like, Marie?" She looked at him, her head tilted to the side, puzzled. "Is she tall?" She nodded. "And is she slender or fat?"

Marie seemed to think for a moment, then held her hands out; they were roughly five inches apart. She shook her head. "She isn't skinny…" She held her hands out wider now, nearly two feet apart, and shook her head again. "But she isn't fat either…" Quasimodo ran the knife along the branch, nodding. "So, she's in the middle?" Marie nodded.

"All right. What does she do for a living?" Marie mimed holding a baby and rocking it in her arms. "She's a nurse, then?" She shook her head, pointing to her own stomach now. She moved, repositioning herself so that she was kneeling with her hands outstretched, as though she was reaching for something. "She's…she's a midwife?" Marie nodded, smiling at him now.

He nodded again. The figure seemed to be emerging from the branch now. He wasn't sure how to convey that the figure was a midwife; perhaps she'd be holding a baby. "Does she have long hair, like you?" Marie nodded, taking her hair now and pulling it back. She positioned it in a sloppy, makeshift bun at the back of her neck. "And she wears it in a bun?" She nodded again.

The figure was nearly done, and he wished that he had his paints with him. It seemed incomplete without a coat of colorful paint. It would look perfect if the dress was blue, he thought. He handed it to Marie now, taking the carving of Esmerelda from her and putting it back in the pouch.

Marie stared down at the figurine of her mother, her mouth opening and closing in surprise. She looked a bit like a fish, and Quasimodo laughed. She looked up at him, smiling, and suddenly hugged him, nearly leaping into his arms. He patted her head. "You're welcome," he said. He had never seen anyone look so happy in his whole life. Marie looked as though she'd lifted a rock and found a shiny gold coin beneath it. She cradled the figurine in her hands, smiling at it. "Now, you have a pocket to put that in?"

She nodded, tucking it into one of her skirt pockets. "Good. And you think you can sleep for a few hours now?" She nodded again and scooted over to where her brother and cousin were. She snuggled up beside her brother, letting her large brown eyes close. Quasimodo watched them for a moment before turning back to the river. He sighed.

~xXx~

"We'll make camp at sunset," Hans was saying, "and we'll reach the next town in a few days."

"When do we reach Paris?"

"I know you're eager, Phoebus," he said, "but we won't reach Paris for another week at least."

Phoebus nodded, attempting to disguise his disappointment. He couldn't complain; Hans was being more than kind to him, and he was anything but ungrateful. Paris felt close, though. It felt painfully close, like a shining treasure that was just out of reach. Esmerelda waited for him, standing by the window, ready to run away with him once he slew the Judge. He would burst into the Judge's house and pierce his corrupted heart. He would rescue Esmerelda, and they would flee together.

"Are you certain you don't want to walk with us, Hans?" Heracles and Frieda appeared beside the wagon now. Frieda was perched on Heracles's shoulder, and Phoebus had to laugh at Hans's sigh of irritation.

"Please, Frieda, can't you ride in the caravan like everyone else?"

"Oh Hans! It's such a lovely day," she said, "the sun is shining, the wind is mild, and Heracles can carry on an excellent conversation."

"I'll walk with you," said Phoebus. He picked up his crutch, and Hans and Heracles helped him down from the wagon. The pain where his left leg used to be had subsided a great deal in the time he'd been with Hans and his circus. He limped alongside Heracles now, finding that he could keep up with him.

"You see, Hans," said Frieda, "if our steadfast tin soldier can walk, you can too!"

"You've made me look bad, Phoebus," said Hans laughing, "but if I don't sit in the wagon, who will drive it?"

"He makes a good point," said Phoebus.

"Ah, you old lazybones!" laughed Frieda, "go ahead, ride in your wagon!"

Phoebus heard giggling and turned to see the Siamese twins rushing over to them. Brunhilde and Conradine looked at him shyly, their blue eyes sparkling. He'd seen women look at him like that before; long ago, before he'd met Esmerelda, before he'd been forced to flee Paris. He knew that he had once been handsome, but he'd always assumed that his looks had gone after he'd fled. Who would find a man with one leg and a battle-scarred face attractive? The twins giggled and smiled at him, then turned to Frieda and began having a fast-paced conversation with her in German.

"They don't speak much French," said Heracles, "but they do find you quite handsome."

"They really shouldn't."

"And why's that? Because you've only got one leg? True, no one's as handsome as me, but you're not bad to look at," joked Heracles. "Besides, they think it's romantic that you're going back to your sweetheart in Paris."

"I suppose it is."

"Did you see them dancing the other night?"

"I did."

The twins had been remarkably graceful, their joined bodies moving fluidly together. They had ribbons tied to their wrists, and they fluttered in the air like birds above their heads as the girls danced and twirled. They had reminded him of Esmerelda, and he'd closed his eyes and imagined her dancing, twirling on her toes and tapping her tambourine. He missed her so much it ached.

"They've had marriage proposals, you know," continued Heracles, "about five each at the last count! Of course, Hans pays them too well for them to want to leave the circus."

Phoebus nodded, watching the twins as they walked along, chattering with Frieda. They wore a pink and purple skirt that reminded him even more of Esmerelda. He remembered kissing her now, sliding his hands up her long purple skirt and feeling her soft smooth legs. She had whispered his name and guided his hands, letting him touch her most private places. He remembered her lying beneath him, the way her body shuddered, the way she felt. She had run her hands through his hair, whispering her love for him, calling it undying and eternal.

He knew deep down that this was true. Even if nothing else was, Esmerelda still loved him with all her heart, and was waiting for him to come and rescue her.

~xXx~

She woke up when she heard the door open. She lifted her head, squinting. The light from the lamp was harsh, too bright, and she couldn't bear to look at it for more than a few moments. Jehan set it down by the door and walked over to her, sitting in front of her. He set down the bowl of porridge wordlessly and reached for her.

Esmerelda did not jerk away from him, but let him slip his hands beneath her arms and pull her up into a seated position. "There now," he said, picking up the bowl of porridge, "this makes things easier, doesn't it?"

Her arms and legs throbbed. The ropes binding her were agonizing; it hurt to move. She nodded, watching as he stirred the porridge with a small spoon. She hated him, despised him; he sickened her to the very core, but he was her only way out of the cellar, and she was in far too much pain to care. She had given her body – unwillingly, always unwillingly – to his brother. What difference would it make if she gave herself to Jehan as well?

He reached for her again, brushing her hair out of her face. She leaned into his hand, sighing heavily as she looked at him. "Jehan," she whispered, turning and kissing his palm, "oh, Jehan…"

She could hear his breathing, heavy with excitement, and suppressed a shudder. He was staring at her, his blue eyes wide with disbelief, as though he didn't quite know what to do. He put down the bowl and shifted closer to her; she could see the knife in his belt, the sparkling green gem in the handle. He put his arms around her now, pulling her close to him. He kissed her, pressing his lips to hers. She shut her eyes, trying desperately to ignore his groping hands.

"Esmerelda," he said, "Esmerelda, you have no idea how long I've wanted this…"

He pushed her to the floor now, on top of her. Esmerelda squirmed; this wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to untie her first. His hands were up her blouse now. They were rough and careless, and she wished that she could take Jehan's knife and cut them off. "Jehan." It hurt to speak. Her throat was raw, sore from constant sobbing. "Wait – wait, not like this…"

He stared at her, puzzled, his hands resting on his belt buckle. "Oh!" He drew the knife now, slicing the ropes easily. She felt relief wash over her as he tossed the knife aside, and she reached for him, weaving her fingers into his hair as he began kissing the side of her neck. Jehan was younger and stronger than Claude, but they both shared the same slender build. Esmerelda pushed, forcing him to sit up, pressing herself against him. She tightened her grip on his hair now, shoving him with all her might against the wall.

He cried out, his head slamming into the wall with a loud 'crack.' She jerked away from him, scrambling across the floor on all fours. Her legs seemed to be moving too slowly, as though they were made of stone. Jehan was shouting now, rubbing his head with his hand. A bright red smear of blood came away, covering his hand, and he stared at it in disbelief.

"You stupid, filthy whore!" he yelled, reaching for her.

She managed to slide out of his way, grabbing the lantern he had brought into the room. She hurled it at him. It missed him, shattering against the wall and plunging the room into darkness. Jehan cursed. Esmerelda crawled out the door; she had been in the dark cellar for so long her eyes adjusted more quickly to the dark than Jehan's. She heard him moving around, groping in the darkness for her. She slammed the door, fumbling to lock it from the outside.

"Let me out of here this instant!" he thundered, pounding the door with his fists. "Let me out, you deceiving little slut!"

Esmerelda leaned against the door. It was thick enough to withstand Jehan's angry fists. She didn't even feel it shake. She closed her eyes, gathering her strength. There was a strong chance that Claude was not at home; if it was before sunset, he would be in court. She rose slowly, letting her legs get used to supporting her before ascending the stairs.

~xXx~

Katarina was somewhat relieved to be walking again. The river looked lovely in the sunlight; the sun would be setting in roughly an hour, maybe a little less. It had been wonderful to sleep, and Quasimodo had had some fish prepared for them when they'd woken. Walking, though, heading towards Lyon, made her feel better. Once they reached Lyon, they would gather a search party to find Rosalie. Pierre seemed optimistic about it. He marched forward brushing aside bushes and branches. Quasimodo had given up scolding him for moving too fast. He knew that Pierre was eager, that he was desperate to reach Lyon.

Quasimodo was friendly enough. He had lived in Paris, though Katarina couldn't remember ever seeing him. She felt bad for lying to him about herself. She didn't really see what harm it would do to tell him the truth, but Pierre insisted that she keep quiet about it, and she didn't want another fight with him. After all, what if Quasimodo knew the Judge or felt some sort of loyalty to him? What if she told him who she really was and he brought her back to Paris?

"We should stop once the sun sets," said Quasimodo, "but if you three aren't tired by that time, we could always press on."

"I'd prefer to keep moving."

"Well, if Carlo and Marie…" He stopped suddenly, tilting his head to listen to something. Katarina stared at him, then she heard it too. It was a man's voice, far-off, but growing closer. Someone was in the woods, singing.

"Die Sonne auf der Wiese ist sich wärmen summery

Der Hirsch im Wald läuft frei

Aber Versammlung zusammen, zum des Sturms zu grüßen

Gehört morgen mir!"

She couldn't recognize the lyrics or language. Quasimodo motioned for her, Pierre, and Marie to stand behind him. She saw Pierre grab Marie's hand. Quasimodo drew the sword from his pack now; he'd stolen it from the dead soldier. Katarina felt her stomach clench at the sight of it. The singing was coming closer, now accompanied by the sounds of branches breaking and bushes rustling.

"Die Niederlassung des Linden ist belaubt und grün

Der Rhein gibt sein Gold zum Meer

Aber irgendwo erwartet ein Ruhm ungesehenes

Gehört morgen mir!"

A man emerged now. He certainly didn't look like a guard, and Katarina felt somewhat relieved. He was wearing brightly colored clothes and carried an enormous bundle of sticks slung over his shoulder. He was holding a large hatchet, and this frightened Katarina. She heard Marie gasp beside her. The man stopped short, his eyes wide with surprise.

"Hello, then," he said. "You're an awful long way from the main road. Are you lost?"

"You've come from the main road? Can you take us there?" Pierre burst forward, accidentally dragging Marie along with him. She stumbled, tripping and yelping in pain.

"Yes," said the man. He was looking at Quasimodo now, his eyes lingering on the sword he was holding. "Where is it you're going, friend?"

"Lyon," replied Quasimodo, stepping forward now. He put the sword down, bending to help Marie. She was sitting on the ground, holding one of her feet; she had sliced her heel on a jagged rock. "I abandoned the main road some time ago. I prefer to travel by the river."

"Yes, the river does lead right to Lyon," said the man. He knelt now, setting aside the hatchet and bundle of wood. "Are you all right, little girl?"

"She's deaf," said Quasimodo. He had torn a strip of fabric from his shirt and was wrapping it around Marie's foot now. "Anyway, I found these three about two days ago. They were on the main road with their mother and were attacked."

The man frowned. "Attacked? By who? These roads are perfectly safe!"

"Soldiers," said Pierre, "from Paris. We…we weren't allowed to leave Paris…"

"Well, that's a foolish law!"

"The Judge's daughter was kidnapped by Gypsies," said Quasimodo, "he's sent men out to search for her."

"I didn't see who attacked us," said Pierre, "my mother told us to run into the woods…and now we can't find her…"

"Well," said the man, "we haven't run into anyone." He rose now, picking up his hatchet and bundle of wood. Quasimodo helped Marie to her feet. She stood on her good foot, wobbling and holding onto Quasimodo's shoulder for support. "Come along with me, maybe we can send a search party up the main road."

"Who are you?"

"My name's Heracles. I'm with a circus. We may have a job for you, friend, if you're interested – "

"No. No thank you. Just take us to the main road, please."

"Right this way, friend."

~xXx~

She knew that the horse was tired, but she urged it on anyway. Paris was behind them, completely and totally out of sight, but not out of mind just yet. She wished she knew how far they had traveled and how much further they still needed to go. The road was deserted so far. Cassandra yawned, rubbing her eyes. Once the sun had come up the trip had become much easier; guiding the horse through the darkness had been harrowing to say the very least. She was exhausted now, struggling to stay awake. Giovanni was asleep in the caravan, and now she envied him.

"Mama," she felt Theresa tugging at her sleeve and turned to look at her.

"Yes?"

"We're hungry."

She had left the Court of Miracles in a hurry, and was now realizing that she hadn't packed much in the way of food. She had two loaves of bread, some cheese, a few oranges, and four jugs of water. She had hoped to pass a farmhouse by now; she could at least buy or barter for food. She tugged on the horse's reins, letting it come to a stop. She unhitched it, leading it to a swatch of grass by the roadside. It began grazing almost instantly, and Cassandra watched it for a moment before climbing into the back of the caravan.

"Let's see what we have," she said, opening up a sack and digging through it. She pulled out a loaf of bread and cut four thin slices. She handed one to Martine and one to Theresa, and placed the third beside Giovanni. He would be hungry when he woke up. She found one of the larger wedges of cheese and cut a few thin strips, giving them to Martine and Theresa. "Here you are."

"Where is Papa?" asked Theresa, nibbling on her slice of cheese like a mouse.

Cassandra sighed. "We're going to meet him," she said, "he's with Rosalie, further down the road. We'll see him very shortly."

"I miss him."

"I miss him too."

She moved past the girls now, bending over Jacques-Clopin's cradle. He was awake, his large dark eyes staring at the ceiling. She picked him up, savoring the warmth and softness of his tiny form. She settled down between Theresa and Martine and began to nurse him.

"When will we reach Papa?"

Theresa's questions irritated her, but only because she herself didn't know how to answer them. "Soon," she said, "we should be reaching him soon." She hoped that they would reach Clopin and Rosalie sooner rather than later. Being without him on the open road made her uneasy. She was somewhat surprised that they hadn't run into anyone else on the road. She had half-expected to run into guards at least. After all, the Judge would be furious once he'd learned of Giovanni's escape, and surely he'd want him recaptured. She wondered if leaving Paris had been wise, but she had no other options. It would be too difficult to hide Giovanni, and what if the Judge arrested her? What would become of Theresa, Martine, and Jacques-Clopin?

She pushed the thoughts from her head, watching as Theresa and Martine finished their supper and began to play with their dolls. Clopin loved carving dolls and toys for them; she had always joked that he was spoiling them. The dolls were lovely, like something one would find in a shop. They had bright smiling faces and rosy cheeks and little ruffled dresses. Cassandra smiled as Theresa and Martine made their dolls dance like ballerinas.

She buttoned her blouse and placed Jacques-Clopin back in his cradle. Despite her exhaustion, she led the horse back to the caravan and hitched it up. It moved when she told it to, plodding along slowly but steadily. She would ride on until sunset, then she would walk in front of the horse and guide it, just as she'd done the previous night. She fought off the urge to sleep, reminding herself that Clopin was out there, and that she needed to reach him sooner rather than later.


	16. Still 1496, Part XII

STILL 1496…

She had not bothered to take any food, clothing, or money from the house, and now she regretted it deeply. Esmerelda shivered as she made her way through the back roads and side streets, keeping to the shadows so as not to be seen. Paris had changed dramatically in the thirteen years she'd spent locked inside. She found that she didn't recognize anyone, and very few of Paris's landmarks had stayed the same. She reached the Notre Dame Cathedral, pushing the door open and slipping inside.

The church was dark and warm, and she felt relief flood her the moment the door closed behind her. Quasimodo would be up in the bell tower. He would help her, she was sure of it. He was a good man, and he would certainly help her figure out what to do next. She bolted up the stairs now, taking them two at a time.

"Quasimodo?" she called. "Quasimodo?"

"He isn't here." The voice was unfamiliar, and she felt her heart begin to sink. A squat, burly man was standing by a table. He looked at her with disinterest, turning back to the table, which Esmerelda now saw held a plate of food. The sight of the food made her stomach rumble.

"Where is he?" she asked. Surely he wouldn't have left the cathedral. Hadn't she heard him ringing the bells of Notre Dame for the past thirteen years? The bells had given her so much comfort; they had been there to remind her that somewhere out there was someone who cared about her.

The man shrugged. "He left a week ago. I don't know where he went."

Esmerelda turned away from him, gripping the doorframe. What could she do now? Where could she go? She closed her eyes, thinking hard, struggling to remember Paris. The Court of Miracles – of course! She still remembered how to get to the Court, and Clopin would be there. He would know how to help her. She left the bell tower, ignoring the burly man who was now asking her something.

~xXx~

Cassandra could smell smoke, and when she reached the top of the hill, she saw the fire. She watched, squinting into the darkness, trying to see the land below. Someone had lit a campfire, but that was all she could see. She glanced back at the caravan. Giovanni was seated, holding the horse's reins. He too was looking ahead, squinting to see the campfire.

"It looks like a campfire," he said. "Perhaps it's Clopin and Rosalie."

Cassandra nodded. "I hope so."

She began walking again. Her feet were cold; she could barely feel them. She tugged on the horse's bridle, begging it to go on. It was tired, she knew that. The caravan was too heavy for it and it had been walking all day. It was exhausted, just as she was. "Come on," she whispered, "just a little further…just a little further…"

She could see someone by the campfire now, though she was still too far off to tell who it was. Her arm ached. The lantern she was holding seemed to grow heavier, weighing her down. It gave off a faint yellow glow that just barely managed to illuminate the road ahead of her. She gripped it tighter.

The person by the campfire moved now, stepping into the light and letting her see his face. She nearly screamed with joy. Clopin was standing by the fire, staring out into the darkness. She wanted to abandon the caravan and run into his arms. She pulled the horse's bridle, and it whinnied in protest. "Come on," she whispered, "we're almost there…"

She looked back over her shoulder at Giovanni. He was smiling as he let go of the reins and leapt down from the caravan. He ran towards Clopin now, his feet practically flying through the air. Cassandra watched, laughing as Clopin caught Giovanni in a great bear hug. Rosalie had emerged from the shadows now, watching dumbstruck as Clopin and Giovanni embraced.

"Cassandra?"

She let go of the bridle now. The horse clearly wanted to stop, and she was close enough to the campfire now. The caravan was now alongside of Rosalie's wagon. Cassandra set the lantern down, the pain easing in her arm. She stepped into the light from the campfire, surprised and relieved at its warmth. Clopin and Rosalie were staring at her in disbelief.

"What are you – I mean, how – " Clopin sputtered as he approached her, his arm still around Giovanni.

"I went to see the Judge," she said. "I thought maybe I could persuade him to let Giovanni go…"

Her heart sank slightly as she saw Clopin's face shift from joy to disgust. If she had given herself to the Judge, he would be disgusted, of course, but he wouldn't stop loving her, would he? She shook her head now. "It wasn't like that," she said, "he threw me out, but I got lost in the Palace of Justice."

"I – oh…but still, how did you – "

"She found my cell," said Giovanni now, "and she stole the guard's sword and made him let me out!"

She turned to Rosalie now, and was unable to hide her shock. Rosalie's lower lip was swollen and had been split; a thick dark clot of dried blood dotted her lower lip. Another bruise had formed on her cheek, near her eye. Her wrists looked red and raw, as though something had been scraping them. "What…what happened?"

Rosalie shook her head. "I'm fine," she said quickly. "I'm perfectly fine."

Cassandra looked around now. There was no sign of Pierre, Marie, or Katarina. They weren't by the campfire, and they certainly wouldn't be in Rosalie's wagon; it was warmer by the fire, and besides, Cassandra had passed the wagon and seen that it was mostly empty. Where on earth were Pierre, Marie, and Katarina?

~xXx~

"I know you."

Quasimodo looked up, startled from the half-sleep he'd fallen into. He rose now, staring up at the stranger and rubbing his eye. The man was tall and muscular and only had one leg. He was leaning on a crutch. His hair was blonde and disheveled, and he looked somewhat familiar. Quasimodo wracked his brain, searching his memories; he had seen this man before, he just couldn't remember where.

"Forgive me," he said, "I can't place you."

"Really? You don't remember your old friend Phoebus?"

Quasimodo squinted at him. "If this is a joke, it isn't a funny one – "

"It isn't a joke!" He smiled now. It was like looking into the past. The man had that same devil-may-care smile that Phoebus had once had.

"Good lord! I thought you'd been executed!"

Phoebus shook his head. "No," he said. "A friend of mine helped me escape. I had to re-enlist in the army." He pointed now to the missing leg. "Which is where I got this lovely war wound. Where are you headed?"

"Lyon," said Quasimodo. He pointed to Pierre, Marie, and Carlo now. They were huddled around the campfire with the legless woman. He'd forgotten her name, but she had led them to the campfire immediately, ordering others to bring them soup and blankets. Quasimodo had been surprised to see the other circus workers obey her with such speed. "I was traveling through the woods when I found them. They got separated from their mother."

Phoebus nodded. "So that's where Hans and Heracles went."

"Yes, the man who found us said he would get a search party together to find her."

He now hoped that the woman was still alive. He could tell that it would completely and totally destroy Pierre if something were to happen to her. Even now, sitting safe and sound with a hot bowl of soup, he was agitated and restless. Quasimodo could see his hands shaking as he finished his soup. If not knowing what had become of his mother was this horrific, then her death would be devastating. Quasimodo couldn't bear to think about it and pushed the thought from his mind.

"Have – have you seen Esmerelda at all?" asked Phoebus now, his voice a whisper.

Quasimodo shook his head. "No." He wondered if he should tell Phoebus about the little dark-haired boy he'd seen with Frollo. He studied Phoebus's face; he had accumulated wrinkles and battle scars, but his eyes were still blue and bright. It would crush him if he found out that Esmerelda had borne Frollo a son.

"I'm going back to her," he said. "I'm going to kill Frollo and win her back."

"Good luck."

He had no idea what else to tell him. Frollo had raised him, been like a father to him, but he had stopped loving him like one long ago. He would not feel much of anything if Phoebus did kill Frollo; even if he did, Esmerelda would not love Quasimodo. She'd love Phoebus. He supposed that as long as she was happy that was all that mattered, that Frollo's death would make her happier than she'd been in years.

~xXx~

As frightening as Frieda looked, she was the nicest person Katarina had ever met. She spoke quickly, her mouth going a mile a minute, telling them the history of the circus that she ran with her brother. Katarina was sure that she would've found it fascinating if she wasn't so exhausted, but she nodded politely, trying to listen to Frieda.

Pierre was the very opposite of exhausted. Frieda and her brother, Hans, had had to force him to sit down and eat something. He'd devoured the soup ravenously and now sat, tapping his fingers against his knee impatiently. Hans had rounded up a few other men, and they had gone out to find Rosalie. Katarina knew that Pierre wanted to be with them more than anything; he was so worried about his mother she thought he might explode. She patted his shoulder, trying to be reassuring, but he brushed her hand away. She sighed.

Marie was pulling on her arm now, pointing at something just past Frieda. Katarina looked, and she saw Frieda turn to do so as well. A few yards ahead was a small tent; two women emerged from it now. They appeared to be stuck together at the waist. They moved now, making their way to another tent. They were absolutely identical, and when they turned, Katarina could see that they were indeed attached to each other. She stared in disbelief. She'd never seen anything so strange before in her life.

"Oh," said Frieda, "those are our Siamese twins, Brunhilde and Conradine."

"What's a Siamese twin?"

"Marie, don't point." Pierre swatted Marie's hand.

"It's quite all right," said Frieda, "she's only a child. Brunhilde and Conradine are joined together at the waist. They're sisters, identical in every way just like twins, only stuck together. They're part of the Freak Show."

"What's a Freak Show?"

"You've never been to a circus, have you?" asked Frieda. Katarina shook her head. "Every circus has a Freak Show! It's a small tent with strange people in it. Our circus has a dwarf, a bearded lady, the loveliest Siamese twins you've ever seen, and myself of course. Your friend the hunchback might like to join us. He can make a great deal of money."

Katarina glanced back at Quasimodo. He was speaking in hushed tones with a tall blonde-haired man. She looked back at Frieda. "I'm not sure," she said. "I don't think he'd like it."

"Ah well, to each his own," said Frieda. "To each his own."

~xXx~

The Court of Miracles was as empty as the bell tower had been. Esmerelda stared, dumbfounded, unable to believe her eyes. The Court had been completely and totally abandoned. It was empty. She looked around, her eyes scanning the places where she and her friends had lived.

Clopin's caravan was gone, but Rosalie's shack was still standing, and now Esmerelda rushed to it, pushing the door open. She was greeted by silence and stillness, and it surprised her even though it shouldn't have. She crossed the room, her shoes clicking quietly against the floorboards. The little one-room shack was bare, completely empty.

She sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes. She could remember bits and pieces of her old life, and she grasped at them, struggling to hold onto the fleeting memories. She remembered Rosalie's wedding, but couldn't remember who she'd married. She'd married one of the Gringoire boys, hadn't she? There were three of them, and Rosalie had married the oldest. Esmerelda was sure of it, even if she couldn't remember his name. She saw Rosalie now, dressed in white, twirling in front of a mirror, laughing. Esmerelda closed her eyes, clutching at the memories as they merged together and began to fade.

She had dreamed of Phoebus only once before, and the dream came flooding back into her mind. She'd had this dream shortly after discovering she was pregnant with Katarina. She saw Phoebus now, standing in the sunlight, holding a baby in his arms. The sun was bright, illuminating him and making him glow like an angel in a painting. He stared down at the baby in his arms, smiling serenely, full of life and joy. Esmerelda sighed now, ignoring the pain in her empty stomach and losing herself in the dream.

~xXx~

It was like a whirlwind of emotions fighting inside of him, and he felt like he would explode. He still could not believe that Cassandra had rescued Giovanni, or that they'd successfully fled Paris. He stared out into the darkness, waiting for the armed guards to rush at them, but there was only silence. The Judge would notice that Giovanni was gone, and it would only be a matter of time before he sent men out to find him. Clopin shuddered at the thought. As long as Pierre, Marie, and Katarina were still in the woods, he and the others were trapped on the main road.

He and Rosalie had searched the woods as thoroughly as they could the day before, but to no avail. The woods were vast and unfamiliar, and they made him uncomfortable. He couldn't find any footprints or other signs of Pierre, Marie, or Katarina. The children hadn't left any sort of trail that he could follow. He and Rosalie had killed three out of the four soldiers who'd attacked her, and none of them had known a thing about Pierre, Marie, or Katarina. Clopin hoped that the fourth man hadn't found them.

He looked back over his shoulder at the caravan. He hadn't gone inside, not yet. He wanted to go in and see his children, to wake them and hold them in his arms. He looked over at Rosalie now. She was asleep by the campfire, a thick gray blanket wrapped tightly around her. She was strong, far stronger than any woman he'd ever known. Watching her kill her rapists had been strange, almost surreal; she'd handled the sword so calmly, as if she was killing a pig instead of a man. It was even stranger to watch her take a life. She had, after all, delivered his children and countless others into the world.

He had been present at his son's birth. It wasn't something he had wanted to witness, but Cassandra had grabbed his hand and begged him not to leave her. He had watched, terrified and disgusted as Rosalie stood by his wife's feet, reaching for something inside of her, telling her to push. Rosalie had found him outside vomiting less than an hour later.

"And you call yourself a man," she'd scolded. Her hands were bloody, and she'd wiped them on her apron.

"You can't tell her about this. Please, Rosalie, you can't tell Cassandra – "

"My lips are sealed. Now clean yourself up and go meet your son."

Clopin turned away from Rosalie now, staring out into the darkness at the road. He hoped that no one would come after Cassandra and Giovanni. If the Judge did send soldiers, they would be heavily armed, and he wouldn't be able to fight them. He pushed the thoughts out of his head. No one would be coming tonight. At dawn, he'd search for Katarina, Pierre, and Marie, and, come hell or high water, he'd find them.

~xXx~

Phoebus watched the stars when he couldn't sleep, which was often. He sat outside Frieda and Hans's caravan, where Quasimodo and the three children were sleeping, and stared up at the night sky. It was amazingly clear, and that was the one thing he truly liked about the countryside. The sky above Paris had been clogged with smoke and buildings; it had been impossible to see the stars.

He heard the door to the caravan open and looked behind him. He had expected to see Frieda, or possibly Quasimodo. The little blonde boy that Quasimodo had found was standing on the top step of the caravan, staring down at him.

"Oh. I didn't know anyone was out here." The boy's voice was unnaturally high in pitch, but then again, he was only twelve or so; he hadn't matured yet.

"You can't sleep either?" he slid over, making room. The boy descended the steps and sat down beside him.

"No. I keep thinking about my mother."

"Ah." Quasimodo had said that the children had become separated from their mother after being attacked on the main road. Phoebus wasn't sure whether or not he believed him; the blonde boy didn't look a thing like his supposed siblings. The other two were Gypsies, complete with jet-black hair and equally dark eyes (they were definitely related, Phoebus had decided, they looked so much alike). He still couldn't fathom why the children would lie about being related or not. Perhaps they had different fathers. "Well, Hans and Heracles are sure to find her."

The boy shook his head. "That isn't my mother," he said. "That's my aunt."

"So the other two are your cousins?"

"Yes."

Phoebus nodded. "You really don't look at all alike."

The boy shrugged. "My mother died a little while ago," he said. "My stepfather sent me to live with my aunt."

"Why would he send you away?"

"Because he isn't my real father. My real father died before I was born."

"That's terrible. I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Thank you."

He noticed for the first time that the boy was shivering from the cold. He reached down and picked up the lantern he'd lit earlier. He placed it on the step between them, and the boy edged closer to its heat. The boy had bright green eyes that reminded Phoebus of Esmerelda, if only for a moment. The boy was struggling to blink back tears now, rubbing his hands together.

Phoebus patted his shoulder. He hadn't really had any sort of experience with children; he'd had to deliver bad news before, though, and he struggled to remember the experience. He'd had to tell women that they were widows, and some of them had fallen into his arms weeping. Others had screamed at him and struck him. He hoped that this boy would do neither.

"I know what it's like to lose your parents," he said. His own parents had been dead for years, and now he found his thoughts drifting to his mother. She had been so proud when he'd joined the army. She hadn't lived to see him promoted to Captain of the Guard, though, and this now saddened him.

"I can't remember the last thing she said to me."

"Give it time," he said. "It'll come back to you if you stop trying so hard."

The boy nodded. "I never got to say goodbye to her."

Phoebus sighed. "She loved you, though," he said, "and she knows that you loved her back." It was something he'd said to widows dozens of times before, and it was a line that always worked. The boy smiled now. It was a small smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"I suppose you're right," he said.

"You should get some rest," said Phoebus. "Neither your mother nor your aunt would approve of you staying up so late."

The boy nodded. "Thank you," he said, "for letting me talk about my mother, I mean."

Phoebus nodded. "Anytime."

The boy stood up, and Phoebus watched him slip quietly into the caravan. He found that he too was tired, and he rose slowly, gripping his crutch. He extinguished the lantern and made his way to the roustabouts' caravan in the dark.


	17. Still 1496, Part XIII

STILL 1496…

The sun was still struggling to rise, painting the sky a dim gray color. They had decided to search the forest in shifts. She and Clopin would go in first, carefully marking the trees as they went. Rosalie was cooking breakfast, her hands moving quickly around the fire. The soldiers had eaten most of her food, and Clopin had only brought enough to sustain him and possibly Katarina. It was a feast when combined with the meager portions that Cassandra had brought with her in the caravan, but she knew that it wouldn't last long. She wondered briefly if Clopin knew how to hunt.

"Someone's coming."

Cassandra tilted her head and strained to hear. She heard horse's hooves in the distance. Clopin had picked up a sword now; he pointed to the caravan. "Get inside, the two of you." Rosalie began to protest, but Cassandra grabbed her wrist and pulled her up into the caravan. Inside, Theresa, Martine, and Giovanni were just waking up. She quieted them as best she could; Theresa and Martine were itching to go out and see their father. She held them now, clutching them so tightly they started to complain.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, released them now, stroking Theresa's hair. What if soldiers were coming? What if they were attacked? She tried to push the thoughts from her mind, but it was as though Theresa could read her thoughts, and she began to cry. Rosalie was sitting by the door, twirling her dagger and staring at it. She was being no help, and Cassandra ignored her. She held Theresa and Martine, rocking back and forth with them.

It was deathly quiet. Surely Clopin would cry out and warn them if they were under attack. What if he'd been killed before he could, though? She could see him in her mind's eye lying in the road, blood spilling from his throat, his eyes still open, his hand still gripping the sword. No, she told herself, no, he won't die, he can't. Clopin was relatively skilled with a sword; Cassandra was certain that he could hold his own in a fight. A fair fight, though, and soldiers were anything but fair.

The silence was broken by a sharp knock at the door. Cassandra watched as Rosalie stood up, unlocking it. Cassandra held her breath as the door swung open and Clopin appeared in the doorway. Theresa and Martine started to run to their father, but she held them back. Clopin's face was grim and puzzled.

"They're looking for Rosalie," he said, "they say they found Pierre, Marie, and someone named Carlo in the woods."

Cassandra couldn't see Rosalie's face; all she saw was a blur as Rosalie pushed past Clopin and leapt from the caravan. Clopin turned, watching Rosalie dart out of sight. "Come on," he said, "it's all right."

Cassandra stood up slowly, bringing Theresa and Martine with her. They rushed at Clopin now, nearly knocking him over. He embraced them, folding them both into his arms. He stroked their hair, and Cassandra felt a sudden sense of relief flood her. She turned to Giovanni. He had picked up Jacques-Clopin, and now he handed him to her. She took the baby from him, holding the tiny bundle of warmth close. Jacques-Clopin stirred in his sleep, nuzzling closer to her.

She stepped out of the caravan now, blinking; the rising sunshine flooded the road, making it look unnaturally bright. She was somewhat startled by the two men who had undoubtedly come looking for Rosalie. One of them was a giant of a man, towering over everyone else. He stood beside his horse, which was white and nearly as big as he was. He was talking to Rosalie, resting one hand on her shoulder and speaking in reassuring tones.

"They were lost in the woods," he was saying, "but they are safe and sound now, and Hans and I have come to bring you to them – "

"Thank you! Oh, thank you so much!" She sprang at him, practically leaping into his arms and throwing her arms around his massive neck.

The man laughed. "It's fine, dear lady, it's really no trouble at all."

Clopin was talking to the second man, hitching the horses to the caravan as he did so. Theresa and Martine had finally let go of him and were sitting on the steps of the caravan, laughing and chattering. Cassandra approached them now. The whole thing was strange, like a dream. It felt as though time had slowed, or perhaps a miracle had occurred. Cassandra had never really believed in miracles, and now she wondered if this was one.

Clopin turned to her, beaming now. "Cassandra, this is Hans – " the man helping hitch the horses was of normal size, unlike his companion, and had dark brown hair. He bowed to her. "Hans, this is my wife Cassandra. Hans runs a circus, and that fellow over there – " Clopin pointed now to the larger man, whom Rosalie had finally stopped hugging, " – came upon Pierre, Marie, and, um, Carlo in the woods." He stressed the word 'Carlo' and winked at her. Perhaps Katarina was calling herself 'Carlo;' she was, after all, disguised as a boy. It would make perfect sense for her take a boy's name.

"Well, all children love the circus," said Hans. "And it wouldn't be the first time we've found a child who's lost its mother."

"Thank you," said Cassandra, "thank you so very much."

"Now Pierre mentioned being attacked?"

"It's a very long story," said Clopin. Cassandra climbed up into the caravan. She turned and helped Giovanni, ushering him and his cousins inside.

"We have time," said Hans. "Heracles and I rode all night to find you. We won't reach our camp until sunset at least."

Clopin shrugged, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure the children were safely inside of the caravan. Cassandra knew that he wouldn't want them to overhear any of it. She didn't want them to hear it either; it wasn't something for young ears.

~xXx~

Hunger had driven her up out of the Court of Miracles. She wove through the marketplace; she had no money, but her pick-pocketing skills seemed to come flooding back. She purchased bread, water, and cheese with the coins she'd managed to steal, refusing to make eye contact with the grocer. She darted back to the Court of Miracles and sat in Rosalie's shack.

She devoured the food quickly, then leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. She could not remember where Clopin had said he was going with Katarina. She wracked her brain desperately; she got up and began to pace. It was painfully cold and frightfully quiet. Esmerelda left the shack and began to wander around. Perhaps someone had left something behind. She entered shacks and lean-tos. It felt wrong to enter them without permission, but she did it anyway. In one shack she found a trunk filled with clothes.

She rifled through them, pulling out dresses, petticoats, shawls, and sweaters. The clothing was a bit big on her, but she didn't care. She tore off her old gray dress. Frollo had forced her to wear dark, subdued colors, at least during the day. In their bedroom he handed her some of her old Gypsy clothes, forcing her to wear them and dance for him. It had been degrading, and she'd burst into tears on more than one occasion. She hated him more than anything in the world; she would burn the dark gray dress later, she decided. The fire would keep her warm.

~xXx~

He did not particularly want to stay with the circus. Frieda had offered him a job in the Freak Tent, and he wasn't sure if it offended him or not. Frieda herself was part of the Freak Tent. He wondered how she could stand it. Quasimodo hated the way that people looked at him when he walked down the street; he knew that he'd hate it even more if they were paying money to point and laugh at him.

"How do you do it?" he asked her. She looked up at him. She had red hair and green eyes, and her face was spattered with freckles. She might have even been pretty if she'd had a pair of legs.

"You mean, how can I degrade myself in the Tent of Freaks?" she asked.

"Well, I didn't mean it like that, I – " Quasimodo felt his face growing hot and knew that he was blushing. Esmerelda had once told him that he blushed far too easily.

Frieda laughed. "Come on," she said, "there's a well a few paces ahead. Help me fetch water and I'll tell you all about it."

She nodded to the buckets beside her now, and he picked them up. He watched as she turned and began to waddle away, and he followed her. He thought about asking her if she wanted to ride on his back. It wouldn't be any trouble; she probably weighed next to nothing. He'd carried Marie the day before, and Frieda was probably lighter than she was. He wondered, though, if she'd be offended by the offer.

"People do come in and point at me," she said, turning and glancing back at him. "They laugh, but you know what I do? I laugh back."

They approached the well now, and Quasimodo reached out and grabbed the hook to secure the buckets. He lowered the first bucket into the well. Frieda looked up at him. "I know I look funny," she said. "I've always known it. And the people who laugh at me, well, they certainly know it too. They laugh at me, I laugh at them…" she shrugged, "that's just the way it is."

"I wouldn't be able to do what you do," he said, pulling the bucket up. It wasn't terribly heavy; ringing the bells of Notre Dame had built up the muscles in his arms. He set it down and picked up the other bucket. "My whole life I've been told that I was a monster."

He had never spoken about being raised by Frollo, and it felt almost as though a weight had been lifted from his heart. "My mother abandoned me because I was so hideous." He felt Frieda tugging on his pant leg, and he looked down at her. She was not holding herself up with her hands; he had never seen her like this, and he bent and scooped her up. She was so small and light he was afraid he'd crush her. She hugged him, stretching her arms around his misshapen shoulders and patting the hump on his back.

"I don't know what to tell you," she said, whispering it into his ear, "your mother was a fool."

He'd never really been hugged before; he'd been close to people, yes. He'd even held Esmerelda in his arms, but he'd been carrying her, helping her escape from Notre Dame. He remembered how warm she'd been, how the closeness had nearly driven him crazy. He'd thought about her all throughout the night, replaying the feel of her skin against his, her breath against his neck.

He shifted, sliding Frieda onto his back. She laughed, gripping his shoulders. Her hands were thick and calloused. "Put me down!"

Quasimodo lifted the buckets of water. "We'll get back to camp quicker if I carry you," he said, "and besides, you don't weigh a thing."

"We could use you as a roustabout," said Frieda, still laughing. "You can pitch a tent, can't you?"

"I've never done it before."

"Ah, it's easy! A strong lad like yourself wouldn't have any trouble."

He felt himself smiling as he carried Frieda and the buckets into the campsite.

~xXx~

Fury barely began to describe what flowed through Claude Frollo's mind. Both Esmerelda and the blonde Gypsy boy had escaped. He'd been stupid to trust Jehan; he was claiming that Esmerelda had seduced him, bewitched him into letting her escape. Claude didn't care how she'd done it. It would be the last time she betrayed him.

He was thoroughly surprised to find the Court of Miracles empty. The place was usually teeming with filthy, barefoot Gypsies. It was cold and silent, and it was plain to see that everyone had fled. He had the place searched anyway; his soldiers were more than happy to smash the primitive Gypsy shacks. Not a soul remained in the Court of Miracles, and Claude Frollo found himself barely able to contain his anger.

He stood in his study now, holding the sampler he had found in Esmerelda's sewing basket, the one bearing Katarina's "true name," as Esmerelda had so eloquently put it. He had always suspected, deep in the back of his mind, that Katarina had not been his child. She was wild and lively, though he'd always attributed that to Esmerelda's Gypsy heart. She had silky blonde hair, and Claude had been a blonde in his youth. Outwardly, the girl did appear to be his daughter.

He had noticed, though, that Esmerelda treated Katarina and Jean-Claude differently. She had always been more affectionate with Katarina. True, she had held Jean-Claude, nursed him, bathed him, clothed him, but Claude now sensed that she had never truly loved the boy. She had a way of looking at him impassively, as though masking some other, darker emotion. She had wept when she'd learned that she was pregnant; she'd done that with both children, though.

Claude knew that she didn't love him. This didn't matter much to him; she belonged to him. As his wife, he could do whatever he wanted with her. He did not think himself a cruel man. He had educated her, given her food and shelter and clothes. It was her job as his wife to make love to him when he wanted it, and she always did so without complaint. It barely mattered that she hated him.

She was probably laughing at him now, though, and this infuriated him to no end. He would find her and teach her a lesson. He had done it once before, and he could do it again. She couldn't hide from him forever. He would find her – and Katarina, he would find Katarina too. After all, he couldn't punish Esmerelda for her infidelities without Katarina.

He'd known on their wedding night that Esmerelda wasn't a virgin flower, and this hadn't bothered him much at the time. So long as he possessed her, so long as no other man could touch her, her past didn't matter. She had somehow managed to give herself to Phoebus and had produced a child with him; she had tricked him into raising the product of her love for another. Such deceit would not go unpunished. He would find Esmerelda and Katarina, and they would both pay for her sins.

~xXx~

She held her breath and shut her eyes tight. She could hear the tramping of heavy boots above her, and she felt the floorboards vibrating. She had noticed that the floorboards of Rosalie's shack were loose, and had found a large crawlspace beneath them. She lay there now, clutching the food and dresses she'd stolen, praying that whoever was stomping around above her would go away.

She had heard Claude's voice earlier; he was here in the Court with soldiers. They were probably searching for her. She was now very glad that the Court had been deserted. Claude would arrest everyone he saw; he'd have them tortured and executed until she gave herself up. She couldn't bear to go back to the empty wine cellar. She would not go back to Claude Frollo's house, no matter what.

Esmerelda lay in the darkness, listening as the soldiers left, shouting out that they hadn't found anyone or anything. She vowed now that she would never go back to Claude Frollo. She would never give herself to him again. In the darkness, she could feel his hands on her, groping and squeezing as though they owned her. She fought to press back the memories, but they spilled forward anyway. She shuddered, remembering their 'wedding night.' Claude had led her to his bedchambers and handed her a flowing purple dress.

"Put it on," he'd said, sitting down on the bed, watching her, "and dance for me."

She had cried while she danced, her arms and legs shaking so badly she could barely move. Claude had watched, smirking. He had forced himself on her, pushing her onto the bed, ripping the dress, and he hadn't cared at all that she'd wept the entire time. Esmerelda felt hate and terror rising up within her now; she was unaware that she'd started to cry.

~xXx~

Pierre was annoying her to no end, and she was glad to be away from him. Frieda had asked her to go and gather more firewood. Katarina did not want to go back into the woods, but Heracles had left a relatively clear path, and she figured that if she didn't stray from it, she wouldn't get lost.

She'd been thinking about Giovanni lately, and she felt horrible. After all, it was her fault that he'd been captured. She should have known that the Judge would use her mother's death as a trap. She kept telling herself that she should have known better than to visit the grave, but she knew that she would've gone anyway. She still hadn't said a proper farewell, and she'd never be able to now. Knowing this stung her, and she very nearly started to cry again.

Poor Giovanni was being locked away in some horrid prison cell, and it was all her fault. She did not want to think about what the Judge might be doing to him. She hoped that he'd find a way to escape. He was smart, one of the smartest people she knew. He could make his way though the crowded streets of Paris without getting lost, and he could outrun anything. Perhaps he had been able to outrun the guards in the cemetery. Perhaps he'd outrun them and hid and hadn't gotten back to the Court of Miracles until after she'd left.

Katarina clung to the thought, hoping that it was true. She found that she missed Giovanni terribly; Pierre was somehow managing to irritate everyone who came in contact with him, and Marie was somewhat babyish. She missed Giovanni, even though he had laughed at her in boys' clothes. She could remember the last thing he'd ever said to her; he'd said her name. He'd grabbed her shoulder and said her name, his voice a thin, fearful whisper. He had seen the guards in the cemetery before she had, and he had warned her. She remembered his hand against her shoulder, pushing her forward, urging her to run.

She sat down, letting the pile of sticks and branches that she'd accumulated fall to the ground beside her. She touched her own shoulder now, trying to mimic Giovanni's hand.


	18. Still 1496, Part XIV

STILL 1496…

The mule was exhausted. She knew this, but she urged it on anyway; the sun had set an hour ago, and, according to Hans and Heracles, they would be arriving at their campsite soon. Pierre and Marie would be there, waiting for her. Her arms practically ached for them now. She found herself vowing never to let them out of her sight again.

"That mule of yours sounds tired," Heracles said. He turned to look back at her. He was riding just a few paces ahead of her, holding the lantern. "It won't do you any good if it drops dead."

"It'll be fine," she called. "How much further?"

Heracles laughed. "Not far now," he said. He pointed now. "Can you see lights in the distance?" Rosalie squinted. She could see something very faint flickering just ahead, and her heart leapt. "That's our campfire," continued Heracles. "And I'm sure your children are sitting by it now, enjoying a hot meal."

"You…you've been too kind…" she felt her breath hitch and her eyes growing hot; she'd been swallowing the urge to cry for days, and she allowed the tears to spill down her face. It felt good, as though pressure had been lifted from somewhere inside of her. Heracles had turned around and was moving towards her, and she wiped her eyes.

"Oh come now," he said, reaching into a pocket and producing a handkerchief. "You really don't think we'd let three children starve, do you? We wouldn't be a very good circus if we did! And besides, if I know Frieda, she's given them plenty of chores, so they've earned their dinner."

She took the handkerchief, drying her eyes with it. "Thank you."

Heracles stared at her. She handed him back the handkerchief, thanking him again. He took it almost reluctantly, tucking it back into his pocket. "I know it isn't my place to say this," he said, "but I do hope he suffered." He pointed to her face. "The man who struck you, I mean."

"I…oh…"

"Clopin says that you killed him."

Rosalie shrugged. "Yes…Clopin helped me, though…"

Heracles looked at her, his mouth slowly curving into a smile. "So long as the bastard suffered."

The man had died screaming, blood flowing from him like a river, soaking into the ground around him. The sheer amount of blood had stunned her, and she'd been surprised at just how long the man had survived. He had begged her for mercy even though he'd shown her none. He'd wept, forgetting that he'd taunted and laughed at her while he'd violated her. _See, my darling, this is what a real man feels like. You do like it, don't you? You aren't screaming, so you must like it_. He'd wept and begged and screamed obscenities when she'd driven the knife through him. He had suffered; she'd seen to it.

She now wondered what Heracles would think if he had seen her. Would he be horrified? She was surprised that Clopin had been so calm; he had watched the man bleeding with placid, uncaring eyes. _My dear sir, mercy is out of the question, so you may as well stop asking for it_. He had held the man still for her, letting her do as she pleased with him, obeying her when she asked him to move aside. Rosalie knew that Clopin had killed before; it was common knowledge that he'd slaughtered the men who'd attacked Cassandra thirteen years ago. She had not been present, but had seen him washing blood off his hands, cursing as it splattered his coat.

"This is my favorite coat," he'd complained, "and blood tends to stain. Damn it!"

He could more than handle the sight of blood, which she found strange; after all, she'd seen him vomit after witnessing the birth of his son. It was not terribly common for a man to watch his children being born; Cassandra had delivered Theresa and Martine without Clopin. Jacques-Clopin, however, had come in the middle of the night, and Cassandra had mindlessly reached out and grabbed her husband, forcing him to stand by her side.

"He suffered," Rosalie said.

"Good," said Heracles. He smiled at her, turning his horse and urging it on ahead. "We're not far now. If we hurry, you can tuck your children into bed."

~xXx~

Katarina was with Pierre and Marie, calling herself 'Carlo.' Giovanni found the thought funny, though he couldn't say why exactly. He found that he simply couldn't wait to see her. He wanted to leave the caravan and run ahead on foot. He would probably get there faster; the horses were tired, and moved slowly in the darkness. The road was so open and inviting. It stretched on ahead, enticing him. He wanted to run so badly.

His uncle wouldn't let him, though, and he knew better than to pester him. He was tired. Giovanni wasn't entirely sure what he was doing out on the road. He'd been more than stunned when he'd returned to the Court with Cassandra and found Clopin gone. Cassandra had offered a vague excuse, saying that Clopin had forgotten to give Rosalie something important. She wouldn't say what it was, though, and he couldn't find any of Rosalie's possessions in the caravan. In the back of his mind, he wondered if Clopin had intended on taking something from Rosalie; he wondered if Clopin had gone after Katarina. Would Clopin offer her to the Judge in exchange for him? Giovanni shuddered at the thought and pushed it from his mind. Clopin would never do a thing like that. Since Katarina's mother's death, he'd spoken of her as though she was a sister. Giovanni couldn't wait to tell Katarina all the stories his uncle had told him. She would love them.

He wondered if she would embrace him again, the way she had in the Court of Miracles. He closed his eyes, remembering the way she'd called his name, shouting it out. She'd been so happy to see him then. Surely she'd be just as happy now. He sat up in his bunk, looking out the window at the starry sky, willing the time to pass by more quickly.

~xXx~

She couldn't sleep. Rosalie's old shack felt small and claustrophobic, and she had left it hours ago. Despite the cold, she had not returned to it. She paced now, wandering up and down the Court of Miracles. She took in the shacks and houses that the guards had ruined, and she occasionally stopped to pick something up or right a fallen object. Esmerelda sighed. She had stopped trying to remember where Clopin was going. It would come to her later, she was sure of it.

Her thoughts roamed through the past; bits and pieces of her old life flooded her mind and made her smile in spite of everything. She saw Clopin sitting cross-legged by the fire, bent over, stitching a hand puppet with great care. She remembered the way he had tried to teach her how to read, showing her the little stories he'd written on scraps of parchment for his puppets.

"You don't have to memorize it," he'd said, "it's all written down! You can just read it!" Of course, he had memorized all of his stories anyway. A great storyteller must know his work like the palm of his hand.

Esmerelda sighed. The Court of Miracles looked so strange without its teeming masses. She was so used to being surrounded by people, enveloped by friends and family and crowds so thick you could barely move. She'd hated it when she was younger, but now she longed for it. She sat down, sighing, and surveyed the ruined Court of Miracles. She would find her friends again, she was certain of it. She would hide in the Court until she remembered where Clopin had said he was going, then she would slip out. Being back in the Court had reminded her of so much, including how to hide in plain sight. She could hide from Claude Frollo, and she would leave Paris and be free from him once and for all.

~xXx~

He sat by Frieda's caravan, gazing up at the night sky, once again unable to sleep. He had half-expected the blonde boy to come out and join him again; it had been refreshing to talk to someone. The child was by no means an expert conversationalist, but his company was better than solitude. Still, Phoebus supposed that his slumber was a good sign; it meant his mind was at peace.

Phoebus's own mind was far from easy, and he prided himself on being able to keep this hidden. He was sure that it would horrify Frieda and Hans if they knew what he was thinking about. Most of the time, he dreamed of ways to kill Claude Frollo. Tonight's fantasy involved slow torture and hot coals; he could almost hear Frollo screaming for mercy. He would force the good judge to eat the hot coals, shoveling them into his narrow, evil mouth. Phoebus was dimly aware that such thoughts would have horrified him once, but that had been a long time ago; he wasn't the same man he'd once been.

"Phoebus!" he looked up, seeing Dierk coming towards him. He didn't know Dierk terribly well; he was robust for a dwarf, but could play the fiddle exquisitely. The instrument seemed to come to life in his arms, and he could simply play for hours.

"What is it?" Phoebus reached for his crutch, but didn't stand. Dierk rarely had the opportunity to look down at someone, and Phoebus let him have the moment.

"Hans and Heracles have returned!" said Dierk, "they've found the children's mother!"

Phoebus sprang up and hobbled over to Frieda's caravan. He banged on the door, hitting much harder than he'd intended, and he heard voices from within.

"Carlo, open that door for me, will you?"

The door swung open, and Frieda stood there, blinking up at him. "You'd better have a damned good reason for waking us at this hour," she said.

"Hans and Heracles are back!" Dierk called out, shoving his way past Phoebus. He looked up at Carlo and Pierre, who were standing in the doorway, mouths agape. "They've found your mother!"

"Is – is she all right?" Pierre looked stunned, as though he would faint at any moment, and had to grip the doorframe for support. Carlo darted back into the darkened caravan and emerged a moment later with Marie. She was rubbing her eyes, yawning.

"Come see!"

Pierre grabbed his little sister's hand, and the two of them practically sprang from the caravan. They raced off across the grass, Carlo rushing after them. Phoebus turned, watching them fade into the darkness. He heard happy shouts now, and smiled as he hobbled towards them. He had to shield his eyes; Heracles was holding a lantern, and it seemed unnaturally bright to his eyes.

Once Phoebus's eyes had adjusted, he saw a woman kneeling, her hands outstretched. Pierre and Marie rushed into her arms, and Phoebus felt his heart ache. He watched as the woman stroked their hair and kissed their faces, reassuring them that they would never, ever be parted again. It made him long for Esmerelda, and he felt more determined than ever to return to her and slay the monster who was keeping her prisoner.

~xXx~

"Clopin? Clopin Trouillefou?"

He turned, squinting at the man who was now speaking to him. He was fairly certain that he'd never seen him before in his life. The man had tangled blonde hair and was standing on one leg, leaning on a crutch. Clopin was too exhausted to even try to remember the man's face. "I – I'm afraid I don't know you – "

The man rolled his eyes impatiently, "Clopin, it's Phoebus!"

Clopin stepped forward, staring hard at the man now. Surely it was some sort of horrid joke; Phoebus was dead. He hadn't seen the body, but he'd heard that Phoebus had been executed, and since he hadn't seen him around Paris, he'd assumed it was true. If Phoebus didn't die, why on earth had he simply vanished? "They said you were dead!"

Phoebus nodded. "I tried to save Esmerelda, but Frollo arrested me," he said, "he ordered them to execute me, but a friend of mine helped me escape. I had to re-enlist in the army, and we were sent to Spain…" his voice trailed off, and he stared down at the stump where his left leg had been. "I…I left the army the first chance I got," he said, "and I've been trying to get back to Paris ever since."

"For Esmerelda…" Clopin felt his heart sink. He was far too tired to deal with this; he was practically forcing himself to stay awake at this point. Phoebus was nodding, talking excitedly about some plan to kill Frollo and run off into the sunset with Esmerelda in his arms. Clopin put a hand on his shoulder. "There's something you need to know."

Phoebus looked at him, his head tilted in puzzlement. "Come on," said Clopin, glancing back over his shoulder at Rosalie and her children. "We should go somewhere else."

He led Phoebus away from the others, bringing him around behind the caravan. He sat down on the ground and motioned for Phoebus to sit beside him. Phoebus sat, placing his crutch on the ground between them.

"Esmerelda is dead," said Clopin. "She passed away a few days ago."

Phoebus stared at him, his mouth twitching in anger. "That bastard killed her," he said after what felt like an eternity. His voice was shaking, angry, and he was clenching his fists. "I'll kill him…"

Clopin shook his head. "No, Phoebus. You – you're needed here."

"The circus doesn't need me! I'll buy a horse from Hans, and I'll go to Paris, and I'll slit that bastard's throat for what he did to Esmerelda!"

"You have a daughter." Clopin had wanted to break the news a bit more gently, but Phoebus was reaching for the crutch now. Clopin grabbed it, holding it out of his reach. It felt wrong, as though he was taunting a cripple, but he didn't care. Phoebus was staring at him now, his blue eyes wide. "You and Esmerelda made love before you were arrested?"

"Y-yes, but – "

"Well, often, when a man and woman make love, it results in a baby – "

"Damn it, I know that!"

"Her name is Katarina," said Clopin. "Esmerelda asked me to bring her to Lyon." He looked around; they were too far away from the rest of the group, and he was far too tired to get up, but he rose anyway, handing Phoebus the crutch. Phoebus pulled himself up, and Clopin led him back to the other side of the caravan. Katarina was with Giovanni, chattering excitedly, moving her hands in excitement as she spoke. He pointed. "She's over there – "

"Those are boys!"

"No, Phoebus, the one in the blue shirt is a girl," said Clopin. "Esmerelda tricked Frollo into thinking that the child was his. He threatened to send her to a nunnery, so Esmerelda asked me to take her out of Paris. As you can imagine, the guards have been searching everywhere for a fair-haired girl, so I had to disguise her." He looked at Phoebus now. Phoebus was staring at Katarina, watching as she chattered and giggled. Even though she was dressed as a boy, her mannerisms were still feminine; to Clopin, it seemed more than obvious that she was a girl.

"And she…she is my daughter?"

"Yes. Come, I'll introduce you – "

Phoebus waved his hand away. "Not yet." He turned to Clopin now. "I have to go to Paris – "

"Phoebus – "

"I'll come back for her," he said, "once I kill Frollo, I'll come back for her. Just keep her for a little while longer. Here – " he reached into a pocket and produced a coin purse now, thrusting it into Clopin's hands, " – I'll give you more when I come back for her if you want."

Clopin shoved the money back at him. "She needs you," he said. "Even if you kill Frollo, you won't get away with it. They will catch you and have you executed."

"I have to do this for Esmerelda."

"Esmerelda wouldn't want you to. She'd want you to stay here and take care of your daughter – "

"Don't tell me what she'd want," snapped Phoebus. He took the coin pouch, tucking it back into his pocket. "I'll come back for Katherine."

"Katarina."

"Right. Katarina. I'll come back for her, but first I need to kill Frollo."

Clopin could hear the desperation in Phoebus's voice. He glanced over at Katarina. She was hugging Giovanni now, pressed flat against him. Clopin sighed. Phoebus would not be content letting Frollo live, even if it claimed his own life. He couldn't stop Phoebus; he would kill Frollo even if it was the last thing he ever did. It probably would be, too. Poor Katarina, he thought, she'd be an orphan without even knowing it.

"All right," said Clopin. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. "Go and kill him. Just make sure you come back."


	19. Still 1496, Part XV

STILL 1496…

Katarina had hugged him again. It made him dizzy to think about it. He had hugged her back, though he'd barely been aware of deciding to do so. It had just happened naturally. It had felt like the world just stopped for an instant, like it had stopped just for them. They were clinging to each other as if nothing else mattered. Giovanni had been tempted to kiss her; he had wanted to so badly it frightened him now. He was glad that he hadn't kissed her, though. After all, she was masquerading as a boy; Frieda even thought that she was his brother. He and Katarina had been surrounded by people, and kissing her would have been improper. Besides, what if she didn't want him to kiss her? What if she didn't like it? She wasn't the kind of girl who'd want to be kissed by surprise in front of a crowd of people. She'd probably slap him, which would have embarrassed him to no end. No, it was better that he hadn't kissed her.

Giovanni closed his eyes, letting sleep overtake him. He imagined that he could still feel Katarina pressed against him, hugging him with the strange, fierce, intensity that seemed to spill out of her soul.

~xXx~

There were not many places Esmerelda could hide, and finding her had become his top priority. He'd sent four of his best men after Katarina a few days ago; they would no doubt return with her shortly. Claude stood up and began to pace. He'd spent the last few hours bent over a map of Paris, desperately searching for some corner that he'd forgotten, where Esmerelda would undoubtedly be.

They had searched Notre Dame, much to the Archdeacon's displeasure. Frollo was surprised that Quasimodo had left the building, but he found now that he didn't particularly care. He had stopped going to see him after marrying Esmerelda. It was probably better that he had left Paris; according to the Archdeacon, he'd left over a week ago, so he couldn't have any involvement in Esmerelda's disappearance.

The one place he kept coming back to was the Court of Miracles. His men had searched it, and thoroughly too. It was a Gypsy dwelling, however, and undoubtedly filled with secret rooms and passageways. He would have them search it again, and this time, they would burn it to the ground.

~xXx~

She lay awake, wrapped in shawls and blankets she had found earlier, wondering where she could possibly go next. Frollo would return to the Court of Miracles, she was sure of it. She couldn't hide beneath the floorboards forever. He would return, and then it would only be a matter of time before he found her.

Esmerelda sat up. Perhaps she could go to Notre Dame. Even if he did discover that she was there, she could claim sanctuary. He had no right to overturn it; she'd be safe inside of Notre Dame. Of course, if Frollo found her hiding there, he'd turn it into a prison for her. Quasimodo was gone; he couldn't help her escape now. It seemed that no matter where she went, she would be trapped.

She took off one of the shawls, holding it up and examining it. She had considered suicide in the past. She had thought about death, longed for it even, on her 'wedding night.' She remembered staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the fact that Frollo was on top of her, inside of her. She had wished for death at that moment. She'd very nearly killed herself when she'd found out that she was pregnant. The dream about Phoebus, though, had convinced her that it was his baby she was carrying, not Frollo's, and so she'd forced herself to survive for Katarina's sake. Katarina was gone now, safe with Clopin.

Esmerelda sighed, tossing the shawl aside. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair.

~xXx~

He left at dawn despite the fact that he hadn't slept at all the night before. He didn't feel tired. He paid Hans for the horse. He'd noticed that Clopin had a sword with him; its handle bore the insignia of the Parisian guard on it. Phoebus took it. He doubted that Clopin would miss it; he had probably stolen it anyway. It felt good to hold a sword again, and he couldn't wait to use it on Frollo's throat.

"It was good traveling with you, soldier," Hans had said. "If you'll wait a minute, I'll go wake Frieda. I know she'd want to say goodbye…"

Phoebus had left without saying goodbye to anyone, though; goodbyes only would have slowed him down. He urged the horse on, digging his remaining foot into its flank. It felt amazing to ride a horse again, too; he'd forgotten how strong and majestic they were. This one was a dull gray color, and it moved swiftly, cresting hills with ease. It was worth twice what he'd paid Hans, and he swore now that if he ever found Hans again, he'd pay him.

He hadn't given much thought to Katarina, his supposed daughter. He doubted that Clopin would lie to him about such a thing, but he still had trouble believing that the child was his. The more he combed through his memories of the child, the more he believed that it was indeed a girl and not a boy; the high voice, the feminine mannerisms. It would be easy for a young girl to disguise herself as a boy. All she had to do was cut her hair, bind her breasts, and put on a pair of trousers. And the child did have green eyes like Esmerelda. Even if she was his daughter, she didn't even know that he was alive. She'd said that her real father had died before she was born. If he told her that he was her father, would she even believe him?

Could he even be a father to her? He didn't know the first thing about children, and with Esmerelda dead, he wouldn't have anyone to help him care for the girl. His heart had filled with an uncomfortable darkness since his exile; his thoughts were consumed with ways to torture and kill Claude Frollo. Could he raise a child with all that hate lurking inside of him? What if she reminded him too much of Esmerelda? What if he grew to hate her because she reminded him of what he had lost?

If the girl was indeed his child, then she was his responsibility. He would have to return to Lyon and care for her as best he could once he'd killed Frollo. As difficult as it would be, he couldn't run from Katarina. Besides, he was sure that Clopin would help him. Clopin was married with three children of his own; he knew what he was doing, and he had loved Esmerelda like a sister. He'd be more than willing to help him raise her daughter.

~xXx~

He was more than relieved when he'd heard that Hans and Heracles had found the children's mother. It meant that he could leave. He didn't dislike the circus or any of its workers, but he had no real desire to stay with them. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to go to Lyon anymore; according to Clopin Trouillefou, all the Gypsies of Paris had fled there. It would be crawling with them, and they would only remind him of Esmerelda. The thought of her suffering pained him, and he felt nothing but guilt for it.

"She died a few days ago," said Clopin, "she's at peace now. Let her go."

Quasimodo only nodded. The news of Esmerelda's death saddened him, but he felt a sense of relief. Esmerelda was no longer suffering, and if Heaven existed, she would surely be there. Perhaps her death was really a blessing.

Marie approached them now, bringing a woman who must've been her mother along. The woman was just as Marie had described her; she was tall, and her jet-black hair was pulled back into a neat bun. Marie turned to her now, her hands moving quickly through the air.

"You're the one who found my children in the woods?" the woman asked.

Quasimodo nodded. "Yes."

The woman practically flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around him. He glanced over her shoulder at Marie. Marie was beaming, a smile lighting up her entire face. She was holding up the wooden figure he'd made for her, pointing first to it, then to the woman who was hugging him. He smiled back at her. "Thank you," the woman was saying, "thank you so much – "

"Well, I really…I mean…"

She let go of him, stepping back and looking at him. "You kept them safe," she said, "and I thank you for it." She extended her hand, and he shook it. "I'm Rosalie. If – if there's any way I can repay you – "

He shook his head. "You don't need to," he said, "it really wasn't any trouble for me." She was beginning to look vaguely familiar; he had probably seen her in Paris. If she was from Paris, then she would probably know who he was, but he introduced himself anyway.

She nodded. "I remember you," she said, "you came to the Court of Miracles to warn us about Frollo's attack."

The memory stung him, and he pushed it back. He had unknowingly led Frollo straight to the Court of Miracles. He'd played right into Frollo's hands, leading him to Esmerelda's hiding place and putting everyone in grave danger.

"I just wanted to thank you," she said, "for keeping them safe."

He shrugged, not knowing what to say, and watched as Rosalie turned back to Marie. She embraced her now, bending and kissing Marie's forehead. Marie shut her eyes, pressing herself into her mother's arms.

~xXx~

It was well after dark by the time he reached Paris, and he had just realized that he had no money with him. All Phoebus had was a horse, a sword, and the clothes on his back. He dismounted the horse, leading it along the dark, empty streets now. He was tired and hungry. He couldn't afford a place to stay or a meal, though, and he wandered aimlessly, wracking his brain, trying desperately to think of a place where he could stay.

He stopped when he found himself in the graveyard. The Court of Miracles! Why hadn't he thought of it before? True, Clopin had told him that it was deserted, but it was still a shelter. He could find a place to sleep, then he would set out tomorrow to kill Frollo. He made his way to the Court, moving through the semi-darkness. Somewhere, a fire was burning. Perhaps the Court wasn't completely deserted after all. He emerged from the tunnel and entered the Court of Miracles.

A small campfire was burning just a few paces ahead of him, and he moved towards it slowly, carefully. He could see a small, huddled form asleep beside it. The figure was covered with shawls and blankets; all he could see was a shock of thick black hair poking out. He sat down, peering at the figure. It moved, shuddering slightly. Phoebus wondered if he should wake it.

He nudged it with his hand, feeling a hard shoulder beneath the fabric of the blanket. "Excuse me?"

The figure moaned, shuddering again. He watched as it moved, sitting up slowly and pulling shawls down away from its face. It was a Gypsy woman with stunning green eyes. Phoebus felt his heart leap. He'd seen hundreds of Gypsies, but only one of them had round green eyes.

The woman shrieked and shied away from him. "No!" she cried, struggling to get to her feet. She'd wound the blankets too tightly around herself, and now was tangled in them. She was growing frantic, and her movement only made the blankets tighter. "Don't touch me!"

"E-easy now," he said, holding his hands up. She looked so much like Esmerelda. She had the same large green eyes and oval face. Could it possibly be her? Could Clopin have been wrong about her death? "I – I won't hurt you – "

"Please don't make me go back there," she said, thrashing angrily at the blankets, "Please, I'll do anything – " her voice was thin and hoarse, possibly from crying.

"Are you Esmerelda?" he asked, blurting it out. He had to force himself not to reach out and grab her; it would only frighten her if he did so. She looked so much like Esmerelda, he wanted her to be Esmerelda more than anything in the world. He found himself praying that Clopin had been wrong, that Esmerelda had managed to flee from Frollo and was hiding here. She was a smart girl, and a brave one at that; she could certainly find a way to escape Frollo.

She stared at him. She had stopped moving and sat frozen in front of him, still tangled in the blankets. "Who are you?" she asked.

"My name is Phoebus – "

"Prove it!" she snapped from her paralysis and finally succeeded in untangling herself from the blankets. She edged closer to him. Her eyes were blazing.

"I…I…" he looked around. He had no proof of who he was. He wracked his brain, struggling to think of some way to prove to her that he wasn't lying. He remembered the night she'd been taken from him; he'd been shot in the back with an arrow. It had plunged through his shoulder, sticking out of his chest. She had been the one to remove it and stitch the wound closed. The pain had been intense, pure agony, but her mere presence made it vanish. Her beautiful green eyes had filled with concern while her slim graceful hands had healed his wound.

He pulled his shirt off. He had accumulated dozens of scars over the years, but the scar from the arrow was still visible. He pointed to it, ignoring the dim pain that rippled through him when he touched it. Surely she would remember removing the arrow from his chest.

"The arrow nearly pierced your heart," she said, her voice a whisper. She reached out and touched him, running her fingertips over the scar. Her hands were light and soft. He closed his eyes, remembering the way she'd stitched the wound shut, her hands moving swiftly and gently.

"I'm not so sure it didn't."

He opened his eyes as she embraced him. He held her, and it was a moment he'd been waiting thirteen years for. She was still beautiful, and she still loved him. She was saying it over and over again as he held her. She was so soft and warm and beautiful; the whole thing was like a glorious dream.

~xXx~

He regretted telling Cassandra about Phoebus. She had finally agreed not to tell Katarina, though he knew that she was against this.

"That girl has every right to know about her father," whispered Cassandra, "and you shouldn't have let him leave her here!"

"I can't control the man," said Clopin. "Nothing I could have said would have made him stay."

Cassandra sighed. She was looking over at Giovanni and Katarina now. They were sitting side-by-side at the campfire. Giovanni was telling her something that Clopin could not hear; he moved his hands animatedly, and Katarina laughed. Phoebus would not have stayed even if he'd introduced them. He would never be content until he killed Claude Frollo or died trying, and his discontent would spread to Katarina.

"I just hope he comes back for her," said Cassandra. Clopin put his arm around her, and she leaned against his shoulder. He will, thought Clopin, if he's still alive after he's killed Frollo. The thought was not a comforting one, and he pulled Cassandra closer to him.


	20. Still 1496, Part XVI

STILL 1496…

Esmerelda – his Esmerelda – soft and beautiful, lay sleeping in his arms. Phoebus stroked her hair, weaving his fingers through the dark tresses with love and tenderness. She stirred in her sleep, nestling closer to him. He felt her heartbeat, slow and steady; it matched her breathing. She was here, she was alive, and she still loved him after all this time. Clopin had been right about Katarina. She was, indeed, the product of his love for Esmerelda. The three of them would be reunited in Lyon, and they'd live there in peace and bliss for the rest of their lives. Phoebus couldn't wait. He found himself longing to get to know the mysterious little girl disguised as a boy.

Esmerelda had told him all about her. They had lain there, panting and exhausted, and she'd told him everything about Katarina. She was tall and active, forever running and shouting. She could run faster than the other children she'd grown to know in the marketplace. She could read and write and sew, although she hated sewing with a passion. It was a tedious hobby that Frollo had fully endorsed, and Phoebus vowed that his little girl would never have to pick up a needle and thread again. Katarina knew who her real father was; Esmerelda had told her all about him in secret. This flattered Phoebus, making him nearly cry with joy.

Yes, he would leave Paris with Esmerelda. The horse Hans had sold him was young and strong; it could carry the both of them. They would go to Lyon, and he'd build a house for her and Katarina. They would live together, and it would be perfect. All he had to do was kill Claude Frollo. A plan was beginning to form in his mind. If he knew Frollo, then he was probably desperate and humiliated. After all, his daughter had run away with the Gypsies and his wife had managed to escape his grasp. Since the whole town thought Esmerelda was dead, searching for her would be harder; he couldn't very well tell everyone that he had faked her death. And though he had soldiers at his disposal, at least six of his best men were dead, thanks to Clopin and Rosalie.

He had not told Esmerelda of the plan, but he was certain that it would work, and since it involved Frollo's death, she wouldn't be against it.

~xXx~

The horses needed time to rest, and it had been ages since he'd last been to a circus; they would not be leaving for at least two days. Cassandra and the children didn't seem to mind. Theresa and Martine were thrilled. They loved the acrobats and clowns. Clopin was sure that if they had their way, they'd never leave the circus.

Rosalie seemed calmer, more serene now. Pierre and Marie were perfectly safe and sound; no harm had befallen them, and Rosalie could rest easy knowing this. She sat and watched them now. Someone had taught Pierre how to juggle, and now he was attempting to teach Marie.

"Hans says we're close to Lyon," he told her. "He says it's a three-day ride from here. We'll make it in less than a week."

Rosalie nodded. "I've heard that it's…" she paused, searching for the right words, "it's different from Paris. The people are more…tolerant."

Clopin shrugged. He was fairly certain that anywhere in the world would be better than Paris, with its corrupted judges and freezing prisons. He glanced over at Giovanni now. He and Katarina had emerged from the woods, each carrying a bundle of sticks. They were laughing about something. Giovanni had not spoken about his brief time in the dungeon of the Palace of Justice. Clopin found that he was happier not knowing what Giovanni had been through, but at the same time felt intensely guilty about it. He was the boy's uncle and guardian. It was his job to know everything about him, even his pain. Still, it didn't seem as though Giovanni had suffered terribly; he was still bright and happy as ever.

"Heracles says that Lyon is a better place for Gypsies," continued Rosalie.

Clopin nodded. He didn't know Heracles at all, but he had noticed the way he'd looked at Rosalie. There was something in his eyes when he looked at her, something that Clopin couldn't quite identify but that made him uncomfortable nonetheless. Heracles didn't look at her with lust; the look in his eyes wasn't so base and perverted. No, he looked at her with…what, tenderness? Affection? Love? Clopin doubted that it was love. Pity, perhaps? Did Heracles look at her and see a poor, ruined woman struggling to raise two children?

Clopin brushed the thoughts aside. Heracles seemed like a decent person, and besides, they'd be going their separate ways in a day or two. Lyon really wasn't so far away, and once they reached it, they would be able to lead their lives without fear. He watched as Katarina snatched one of the little purple balls from Pierre, making him lose his concentration. They were both laughing as the rest of the balls fell to the ground; Marie picked one up, tossing it to her brother.

~xXx~

He could barely concentrate and was seriously debating leaving the courtroom early and going home. The youngish man who stood trembling before him was obviously guilty of whatever he was being accused of, and Claude sent him to the stocks without bothering to listen to him beg for mercy. Esmerelda and Katarina plagued his thoughts. They had deceived him, and this both infuriated and hurt him. Claude was not a man who had experienced much pain, physical or emotional, and was not sure of how to deal with it.

He supposed that punishing them would ease the pain within him, and he allowed his mind to wander as the guilty young man was dragged sobbing from the courtroom. Claude had always believed in the old adage, 'spare the rod, spoil the child.' He now feared that he had been far too lenient with Katarina. Despite his punishments, she was an insolent, willful girl. This would have to change immediately. He would whip the insolence out of her, and he would force Esmerelda to watch. Making her watch as Katarina was whipped would hurt her far more than anything else ever could, and when he was through, both Katarina and Esmerelda would never disobey him again.

He now wondered if he should send Katarina away to the nunnery in Reims. What if her impudence grew back, like a weed in her soul? No, as much as he was beginning to despise the girl, he would keep her home where he could keep an eye on her. Having her executed was out of the question, and besides, it would ultimately be more satisfying to control her than to see her dead.

He rose now, sweeping from the room and heading back to his office. Jean-Claude would be waiting there with lunch; he made it a point to share his meals with his only son. It comforted him to know that Jean-Claude had not inherited his mother's wandering Gypsy heart. Jean-Claude was nothing like Katarina; he had none of her boisterousness. He was quiet and well-behaved; he was the perfect child, the ideal son. He was young, but still had a promising career in law ahead of him. Claude was proud of him, justly so, of course. Jean-Claude was not given special treatment because he was a judge's son. He worked for his successes and learned from his failures. He would one day rise to take his father's place in the Palace of Justice, but it would not be handed to him. No, he would earn it, just as Claude had, and this made Claude's heart swell with pride.

He would find Katarina and Esmerelda, and he would see to it that they were punished. He could almost hear the whip cracking; Katarina would scream with pain and Esmerelda would weep for mercy, but he would not show it. He would pluck the rude, willful weeds from Katarina's soul, and she would become a perfect child, like her brother.

~xXx~

Quasimodo hadn't believed Frieda when she'd told him that Brunhilde and Conradine, the Siamese twins, were dancers. He believed her now, though. He watched, stunned, as Brunhilde and Conradine skipped and twirled, their feet so graceful they barely touched the ground. They moved with perfect fluidity. Their pale cheeks were flushed, and they laughed and smiled.

The dwarf – whose name Quasimodo could not remember – stood a few paces away from them, playing his fiddle. The instrument sang and the dwarf tapped his foot in time to the music. His fingers flew across the strings with speed and grace that Quasimodo had never seen before. Brunhilde and Conradine would occasionally call out in German; Frieda told him that they wanted the dwarf to play faster. Quasimodo was certain that they would drill a hole through the grass if they moved any faster.

"They're amazing," he told Frieda.

"That's what they do in the Freak Tent," said Frieda, nodding to him. "People have come from far and wide just to see them."

"I don't doubt it."

"They've had suitors and marriage proposals," said Frieda.

"Really?"

"Yes. I've always told them, they're free to leave if they wish, but I always hope that they don't. It just wouldn't be the same without them." She looked up at Quasimodo now, smiling. "Marie showed me the carving you made for her."

"Oh…she did?"

Frieda nodded. "It looks exactly like her mother! And Pierre says you carved it before you even met her!"

"Oh, it doesn't look exactly like Rosalie." Quasimodo shifted; he knew that he was blushing again and hoped that Frieda wouldn't comment on it. "I mean, I carved it to look like Marie, if she was older, that is."

"You know, you could become the richest man in France if you became a toy maker," said Frieda.

"I – I'm not that good – "

"You're too modest!" she laughed. Quasimodo sighed; there was just no arguing with Frieda, so he might as well let her praise him. "I'll tell you what, if you come with us, we'll set up a table for you to sell your wares."

"I…I really don't know…"

"Well, you are going to Lyon, right?"

"Yes."

Frieda nodded. "We'll be heading back that way in a month or so. If you change your mind, that is."

"All right. I'll think about it, then I'll tell you when you come back to Lyon."

"It's a deal then." She looked back over at Brunhilde and Conradine. Several others had gotten up to join in the dance; Quasimodo could see Clopin and his wife twirling through the crowd. Frieda tugged on his pant leg. "Come on, I think I'd like to dance."

Quasimodo laughed, but picked her up anyway and brought her into the dancing circle.

~xXx~

"Excuse me, I'm looking for Judge Claude Frollo."

The little boy shook his head. "He isn't in right now."

"Oh? When will he be back?" The boy in the doorway had to be Jean-Claude. Esmerelda had told him about the son that she'd borne Frollo, and Phoebus still wasn't sure how he felt about it. He could tell from Esmerelda's tone that she harbored no love for the boy. After all, he was a constant reminder that Frollo had raped her. Phoebus felt that he should hate the boy as much as Esmerelda did, but couldn't bring himself to. The boy was part of her, whether she wanted it that way or not.

"He's in court," said Jean-Claude matter-of-factly. He couldn't have been more than ten years old, but he was dressed in solemn grays and blacks. He bore a striking resemblance to his father; he was even staring at Phoebus with the same intensity.

"Well, I have a letter for him," said Phoebus, reaching into his pocket and producing the carefully sealed envelope. "Will you deliver it to him when he returns?"

"Of course." Jean-Claude took the envelope dutifully.

"Thank you," said Phoebus. He turned and began to hobble away. Esmerelda did not exactly approve of his plan to kill Frollo. She wanted to leave Paris, and was deathly afraid that the plan would backfire. The plan, however, was foolproof. Frollo was not stupid, but he was a proud man, and his pride had recently been bruised. He would not come after Esmerelda with a wave of soldiers if he thought that he could settle the matter with a quiet bribe.

Phoebus made his way through the marketplace, pausing to buy a load of bread and some apples. He carried the sack of food carefully back to the Court of Miracles. Esmerelda was sitting by the campfire, waiting for him. She ran to him, throwing her arms around him. "The trap is set," he said, kissing her, "after tonight, we'll be free of him."


	21. Still 1496, Part XVII

STILL 1496…

She sat in Rosalie's old shack, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth. She found the motion soothing. She did not like Phoebus's plan, not at all. Frollo would not come alone. He would bring soldiers with him; they would outnumber her and Phoebus, and then Phoebus would die. Frollo would kill him. Esmerelda shuddered at the thought, gripping her knees tighter. She had just been reunited with Phoebus. She couldn't bear the thought of being parted from him so soon; she'd go mad if he was killed.

She began to pray now. Esmerelda had never been a spiritual person, and since her forced marriage to Frollo, she had become convinced that God simply didn't care about Gypsies like herself. She prayed now, rocking back and forth and whispering into her knees frantically. Perhaps God would show some mercy on her, perhaps He would allow both her and Phoebus to escape. Perhaps Frollo wouldn't come. Perhaps he'd think that Phoebus's letter was a cruel prank. Esmerelda knew that this wasn't the case, but she clung to the hope and prayed.

~xXx~

Frieda had given him a sack full of food, and he took it even though he didn't really need it. Walking along the river provided him with plenty of fish, but he was touched by her kindness. The sack contained bread and fruit, and he decided that he would ration it out slowly so as to savor it.

"I'll see you in a month's time," Frieda had said, "take care."

"I will."

Marie had been sad to see him go. She'd hugged him, struggling to wind her little arms around his misshapen back. "I'll see you again soon," he had told her. "In Lyon." She had nodded, blinking back tears. Walking along the river, he found that he missed her. The riverbank had suddenly become lonely, and though Marie was anything but conversational, it had been comforting to walk with her. She had become good at fishing; she had patience, unlike her brother. She had never seen a forest before, and it had excited her to no end. She'd been constantly pointing at shining new things; colorful flowers, rabbits, and birds all fascinated her.

It would not take him long to reach Lyon. If he moved quickly, he would reach it in less than a week. He found himself thinking about Phoebus and Esmerelda. Phoebus was a doomed man; even if he did kill Frollo, he'd never get away with it. He'd be arrested and executed, and his body would be thrown carelessly into the charnel house while Frollo was buried with honor. Maybe Phoebus didn't care. Maybe killing Frollo was all that mattered to him, maybe he was willing to die because Esmerelda herself was dead. Quasimodo had not wept at the news about Esmerelda's death. He did miss her, but he took comfort in knowing that her suffering was at an end. She'd been married to Frollo, living in torture, for thirteen years. She was finally at peace.

~xXx~

Jean-Claude could not give him a very thorough description of the man who'd come with the letter. He had asked him several times now, trying to be patient, but Jean-Claude's response was the same.

"He was a tall man, with only one leg, and he had blonde hair and blue eyes."

This could, of course, be a disguise. Claude had seen dozens of Gypsy beggars claiming to be legless get up and flee at his approach. It was easy to pretend to be crippled. Still, he would go to the Court of Miracles and bring with him the stranger's ransom. He could more than afford it; the stranger wasn't asking for much, and besides, he had Esmerelda. The letter had included a lock of her hair; that same thick, dark hair that he loved to wind his fingers through. He wondered briefly if it was some sort of trick orchestrated by the thin man who'd come to beg for his nephew's release.

The boy's escape was, of course, infuriating, but it hardly mattered now. Claude was certain that the boy's escape was the result of witchcraft. The guard had claimed that a woman had bewitched him into opening the cell; the boy's aunt, no doubt, the same woman who'd come and offered him her body in exchange for the boy's freedom. The filthy, deceiving slut! Claude vowed that he would catch her and her husband, that they would be executed alongside their nephew. The man had obviously lied to him; Katarina was nowhere near Lyon. She and her mother were hiding within the very city. If the Gypsies had managed to construct the Court of Miracles right under his nose without him knowing, then surely they could create a second one.

It barely mattered. Someone was willing to betray Esmerelda and deliver her to him. Once he had her, catching Katarina would be easy. He would force Esmerelda to deliver Katarina to him, and this time, she would comply. He'd give the mysterious, one-legged man his meager reward, and he'd hang the rest of Esmerelda's Gypsy comrades. He deeply regretted not executing them all when he had married Esmerelda. It didn't do well to dwell on past mistakes, though. He would find Esmerelda and Katarina, and he would see to it that they never disobeyed him again.

"I still feel I should go with you."

Claude did not want his brother's help in this. After all, it was Jehan's fault that Esmerelda had escaped in the first place, and he would need someone to stay behind and look after Jean-Claude. Jean-Claude was a bright boy, more than capable of staying at home by himself for one night, but he was only ten, and Claude worried about him.

"I appreciate your offer," he said, turning to Jehan now. "But I need you to stay here with Jean-Claude."

Jehan sighed. "Fine," he said. "I'll stay here. But if you aren't back in two hours' time, I'm coming after you."

"Very well." Arguing with Jehan would be pointless. Jehan had always done whatever he wanted, and Claude secretly hated him for this. He picked up his coin purse. He had counted and re-counted the money; the stranger was only asking for thirty pieces of silver. "I'll be back shortly," he said, "with Esmerelda."

~xXx~

The hour was drawing near. Phoebus waited, standing outside of the shack where Esmerelda was now hiding. He would keep her hidden until Frollo arrived. He glanced back over his shoulder at the shack, wishing that he could see her through its walls. She was so frightened, so terrified; he wanted to take her in his arms and stroke her hair and tell her that everything would be all right.

He heard the sound of footsteps and saw a lamp glowing in the distance. Frollo was approaching, and it sounded like he was alone. Phoebus took a few steps forward. He placed his hand on his sword, patting to be sure it was there. It felt reassuringly heavy in his belt, and he let his hand fall to his side. Frollo emerged from the shadows. He was completely and totally alone. Phoebus stared at him. He did not look much different; he was still tall and gaunt, his skin unnaturally pale. He stopped a few paces from Phoebus, staring at him, scrutinizing him.

"You have my wife?" he asked after a moment.

"Yes," replied Phoebus. He turned to the shack. "Esmerelda, come out."

It was very quiet and very still, and for a moment, Phoebus thought that she wouldn't come out. Finally, the door creaked open, and Esmerelda emerged. She looked at him helplessly, her slender form shaking.

"Come here, Esmerelda," snapped Frollo, glaring angrily at her. Esmerelda froze, and Phoebus moved, placing himself between them. Frollo glared angrily at him, then reached into his robes and withdrew a large coin purse. He tossed it to the ground; Phoebus heard coins inside of it clinking. "Give her to me."

"You don't recognize me, do you?"

Frollo rolled his eyes. "I don't have time for games. If you want more money, I'd be happy to hand it over."

"I don't want any money," said Phoebus, stepping closer to him. Frollo did not back away; Phoebus had known that he would do this. He was a proud man who would never admit or show fear. Phoebus stepped closer, leaning on the crutch. He was close enough now, and he knew that Frollo would not think to move until it was too late.

"Then what do you want?" Frollo, of course, moved closer to him, glowering angrily. Phoebus wondered if he would have found this anger frightening long ago. Esmerelda was certainly terrified; he saw her from the corner of his eye now, and she trembled.

"You stole everything from me," said Phoebus, "and I want it back."

"What are you talking about?"

"You really don't recognize me? You should! I'd think you would keep track of the men whose lives you steal!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," snapped Frollo, "but I highly suggest that you get out of my way before I summon my guards."

"Summon them."

For a moment, it looked as though Frollo would turn, and that a swarm of armed guards would descend upon them. For a brief instant, Phoebus shared Esmerelda's fear. Frollo, however, shoved Phoebus, attempting to push past him. Phoebus wobbled on his good leg, but managed to draw his sword and block Frollo's path. Frollo stared at the sword, his cold blue eyes trailing along it. "Phoebus?"

"Yes!"

Frollo looked flustered, and reached back into the folds of his robe. "I was told that you were dead, but now it appears you have more lives than a cat." He withdrew a knife from his robe. It was long and sharp, with a green jewel set in the handle. It was nothing compared to the sword, though, and Frollo had to know this. Still, his pride would not let him back away or show fear.

Phoebus glared at him. "You stole everything from me," he said, "you stole my job and the woman I love, and now I find that you've stolen my daughter too!"

"That harlot tricked me," said Frollo, pointing to Esmerelda now. "She tricked me into raising your bastard child!"

"You stole her life away from her – "

"She married me by choice!"

"No!" Phoebus saw Esmerelda take a tentative step forward from the corner of his eye. "I never wanted to marry you!" she shouted, "I never loved you! You forced me!"

"You chose me."

"You threatened me! You threatened to kill everyone I've ever loved, and you forced me to marry you! I never loved you!"

Frollo glared at her. "It's irrelevant now, Esmerelda. You are my wife whether you like it or not, and you will return home with me."

Esmerelda was shaking her head. "She will never go back to you," said Phoebus. "I will never let you hurt her or anyone else again."

Frollo raised the knife and leapt towards him. The knife sliced through the air, narrowly missing his chest, and he heard Esmerelda screaming behind him. Phoebus swung his sword now, jamming it into Frollo's stomach. Frollo gasped and let the knife fall. He stared up at Phoebus, his blue eyes malevolent, his hands grabbing at him. Phoebus could see the shining, blood-smeared blade of the sword jutting through Frollo's back. He twisted the sword; Frollo's face contorted in pain, and he made a thick, choking sound. Blood spilled from his mouth, flowing down his chin and staining his black robes. Phoebus shook the sword, pulling it from Frollo and knocking the old man to the floor. Frollo lay gasping, his thin bony hands pressed to the gaping wound in his stomach.

"Claude!"

The figure sprang from the shadows, rushing towards the fallen judge. Phoebus recognized Claude Frollo's younger brother, Jehan. He had only met Jehan once and, like his brother, Jehan hadn't changed much in the thirteen years he'd been away. Jehan knelt now, cradling his older brother in his arms. Claude Frollo lay motionless, his angry blue eyes staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.

"Oh God, oh God – what have you done?" Jehan looked up now, screaming as tears streamed down his face. He glared darkly up at Phoebus.

"I'm taking back what is rightfully mine," said Phoebus. He stepped towards Jehan now. Claude Frollo had come alone, but Jehan had followed him, and Phoebus could not afford to leave any witnesses behind. "Your brother stole everything I ever had or loved. He's ruined my life, and Esmerelda's as well – "

"How can you say that? She was his wife! Would she have married him if she didn't love him?"

"He forced me," said Esmerelda now, stepping forward. She touched Phoebus's shoulder, and he felt her hand tremble. "He took me against my will, just as you tried to."

Jehan stared at her, shaking his head. "You're a witch," he hissed. "You tricked me!"

Phoebus swung the sword, running it across Jehan's exposed throat. His eyes went wide, his face twisting into one of pain and surprise. He reached up now, trying to press his hand against the river of blood that flowed from his neck. Phoebus watched as he pitched forward, collapsing on top of his brother's body.

He sheathed the sword, turning to Esmerelda. She stared up at him, and he leaned in and kissed her. "Marry me," he whispered, "we'll go to Lyon and start a new life."

"Yes," she said, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pressing herself against him. Her body was soft and warm, and she was no longer trembling. "Yes, I'd like that."

~xXx~

Watching Katarina and Giovanni laughing together pained her to no end. Esmerelda was dead, and Phoebus would not be coming back for Katarina; he surely wouldn't leave Paris alive, even if he did kill Frollo. Cassandra sighed. She supposed that the job of caring for Katarina would fall onto her and Clopin. Their caravan was cramped enough as it was, and she strongly disapproved of Katarina sharing a bed with Giovanni. They were both beginning to bloom into adults, and sharing a sleeping space would only lead to trouble. Katarina had had a strict upbringing, but the Judge was no longer around to repress her wild heart.

Even though she acted like a boy, Cassandra could see that she missed her mother. She had found Katarina in the woods a few days ago, crying by herself. She'd held her, stroking her hair while she'd sobbed.

"I'll bet the Judge doesn't even miss her. I'll bet he doesn't even care!"

Cassandra sighed. She was fairly certain that Katarina did not know the circumstances of her mother's marriage, and she decided that she wouldn't tell her. Knowing that her mother had been forced to marry a man she'd despised, that she'd been raped and forced to raise his son, would be too much for Katarina. To know that her mother had suffered so would crush her, and Cassandra would not allow that to happen. Clopin was also firm in this as well. Denying the horrors that Esmerelda had endured was wrong, of course, but she wouldn't want Katarina to know about them. After all, Esmerelda had hidden it from her daughter; Cassandra would continue to do so.

"I can't say what he feels," she had replied, stroking Katarina's hair. Her hair was very fine, thin almost, and looked like spun gold. Katarina's skin, once smooth and pale, had accumulated scratches and bruises. The girl would not say how the bruise on her jaw had formed; Cassandra had noticed Pierre sporting a few bruises of his own. She doubted that Pierre would strike a girl, but if he and Katarina had quarreled in the woods, then she would undoubtedly have hit him first. "Your mother loved you very much, though. You must remember that. She wanted you to be happy."

Katarina had nodded, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. "You – you won't tell anyone about this, will you?"

"Of course not."

"Thank you."

She'd watched Katarina leave. Katarina did not know about her father, and Cassandra had wanted to tell her. She couldn't believe that Clopin had just let the man leave. True, he had wanted to kill Frollo, but noble as that was, he was abandoning his daughter. Katarina would need her father now more than ever, and now he would die before she even got the chance to meet him.

Perhaps it was best this way, though. After all, it would only add to Katarina's pain if she knew that the one-legged roustabout had been her real father and that he'd left her here. As sad as it was, she was better off thinking that he had been killed before she was even born.

~xXx~


	22. Still 1496, Part XVIII

He had wept for his father and uncle in private; crying, after all, was feminine, and wasn't something to be done in front of others. His father's colleagues were in the sitting room trying to decide what to do with him. He found himself longing for his mother, missing her almost as much as he now missed his father. He wondered what had become of her, if she would return for him. He hoped that she would, but reminded himself that she'd fallen prey to madness. She hadn't been herself since Katarina had run away.

This whole ugly mess was Katarina's fault. Jean-Claude found himself vehemently hating his older sister. Their father had given them so much, why couldn't Katarina be content? Jean-Claude had seen the filth and sin that ran rampant through the outside world. His father had kept Katarina sheltered from it; he'd loved her far too much to let her become like the loose Gypsy women in the marketplace who danced for coins or sold their bodies in back alleys. Katarina should have been grateful. She should have been smart enough to know that their father was protecting her.

Katarina's flight had driven their mother to madness. Their father had had to keep her hidden in the wine cellar for fear that she'd harm someone. Jean-Claude had not been allowed to see her; his father had assured him that he could once she was cured, though. Now she was gone, and his father was dead, and Jean-Claude knew in his heart that he would never see his mother again.

There had always been something strange about his mother, something he couldn't put his finger on. She had always spent more time with Katarina than with him, and he had always told himself that this was because Katarina was a girl. Girls spent time with their mothers, boys with their fathers. Still, sometimes his mother looked at him with something in her eyes that frightened him. Something dark and monstrous lurked behind her bright green eyes whenever she looked at him, and it frightened Jean-Claude. She had never told him that she loved him. He had never heard her say this to his father, either.

His parents had never touched or been affectionate towards each other, at least, not in his presence. He'd always thought that it was a display of propriety, that they reserved their affection for when they were alone. Lately, though, his parents had been arguing. His father had shouted at his mother, had reduced her to bitter tears when he'd threatened to send Katarina away to a nunnery. A nunnery would be a fine place for his sister; his mother had acted as though it would be the end of the world.

Jean-Claude sat in his sister's room, listening to the hushed voices from downstairs. His father had left him enough money to live on, his uncle had left behind debts. Jean-Claude wouldn't be able to touch his inheritance until he was seventeen; his father's colleagues were arguing over what to do with him in the mean time. Jean-Claude had no other family. His mother had been an orphan whom his father had rescued from a life of homelessness and moral degradation; now she was gone too.

Jean-Claude stared down at the sampler he'd found in his father's office. It bore the words "Katarina Phoebus." It confused him. Katarina was his sister's first name, but Phoebus wasn't her middle name. Her full name was Katarina Agnes Frollo. Why did it say "Katarina Phoebus"? Phoebus was the name of a Greek god, the sun god. Why would his sister share her name with a sun god? Jean-Claude shook his head. The sampler barely mattered. His father was dead, his mother was gone, and it was all Katarina's fault.

~xXx~

She was somewhat sad to leave the circus behind, but she was relieved to finally end the charade. The sun was shining, and it was nice to walk alongside the caravan and hear Giovanni calling her by her real name. According to Hans, they'd reach Lyon in a day or so. She found that she was eager to get there, to find a new city and explore it. The road was dull, flat and uninteresting. Still, it was better than the woods; the woods had been thick and terrifying. She wondered why Quasimodo had decided to go back to them. Perhaps he didn't like being around people.

"You know, I never got to apologize."

"For what?" Giovanni looked at her, his blue eyes puzzled, and she felt her face growing warmer.

"It…it's my fault. What happened in the graveyard, I mean – "

"Oh. You…you don't, I mean, it's all right…"

"I was being stupid," she said. She had to force herself to look at him. "I should've known it would be a trap – "

"But how could you have?"

"It's just something he would have done. I should have expected it!"

Giovanni reached out and took her hand. "You couldn't have known," he said. "And besides, I'm fine. I escaped, didn't I?"

She smiled at him. "Your aunt says she helped you."

He nodded. "It doesn't matter how it happened," he said, "we're going to Lyon, and that's all that matters."

"What do you think it'll be like?"

"Hans said it wasn't that different from Paris. Who knows, maybe we'll build a new Court of Miracles there."

She looked down, suddenly realizing that Giovanni was still holding her hand. He let go of her quickly. "Come on," he said, "I'll race you to Rosalie's wagon."

She ran. She could hear his footfalls beside her and saw him from the corner of her eye. She smiled at him, pushing herself to run faster, and reached the wagon before he did.

~xXx~

He had thirty pieces of silver, a strong horse, and Esmerelda clinging to him, her thin arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Phoebus looked back at her, and she smiled up at him. He had washed Frollo's blood from his hands, wiping the man from their lives. Despite his missing leg, he felt glorious. The road stretched on ahead of him, welcoming him and Esmerelda. Lyon lay across the horizon, where they would be reunited with their daughter. They would become a family, whole and complete.

"I'm so happy, Phoebus. I'm so happy."

He urged the horse on, feeling Esmerelda tighten her grip on him. After thirteen long years of searching and struggling, he and Esmerelda would finally be happy together.

**END**

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**Author's Note:**

Mad, crazy props to everyone who read and reviewed this, especially Cathy, Tonyboy, SunRise19, paige rules, HiddenMusic, and Spirit of the Earth.

Much love and respect to Victor Hugo and his masterpiece, "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." Love and respect to the Disney adaptation, too (but not as much).

Also, much love and respect go out to Tod Browning's film "Freaks." Everyone should go see it right now.

**Misc. Trivia**

I've made references to characters from multiple Victor Hugo works. Congrats to Cathy for catching Jehan Frollo, but can you catch the other reference to "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" or the nod to "Les Miserables"?

The song that Heracles is singing in Chapter 15 is "Tomorrow Belongs to Me" from "Cabaret." Yes, I know, it doesn't fit the time period, so sue me. Aside from looking at a map of France, I did no research for this story.

Hans's circus and its characters were all inspired by Tod Browning's film, "Freaks." Hans and Frieda were actually named after the two romantic leads in the film; if you watch it, you'll notice that the characters have no sexual chemistry whatsoever. It's because they were siblings in real life.

Oh yeah, and at some point, there's gonna be a sequel. Because I have no life.


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